An Act of Deliberation
by November'sGuest
Summary: Sam has a deadly vision of his brother. Meanwhile, Dean is keeping secrets again. Set sometime after BUABS.
1. Chapter 1: A Glimpse of the Future

Marker in the Sand

**Title: An Act of Deliberation  
Author: November'sGuest  
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester  
Category: AU/Angst/Drama  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Spoilers: Possible spoilers for any of Season 1-2.  
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke. No infringement intended - just dabbling in your sandbox, Mr. Kripke, sir.  
Summary: Sam works to stop a deadly vision of his brother.**

A/N: Well here I am again, posting another work in progress, sigh. You can't imagine how nervous I am right now as I get ready to put this up…no going back from it and not knowing how it will be received. This little plot bunny has actually been with me since late last November ('06), but I vowed that I'd finish "The Wake-Up Call" before posting another multi-chapter fiction.

Gah, I might as well throw it out there and stop with the stalling…I sincerely hope that you enjoy this and I'm gonna shoot for keeping it under 15 chapters this time…then I hope to go on to WUC's sequel. Enjoy (please, please, I hope…) and review if you love me. ;)

An Act of Deliberation

Chapter 1: A Glimpse of the Future

Alone in another rag-tag, worn down motel room, Dean Winchester sat on his bed, his Desert Eagle .45 sitting lax in his grip. In his other hand, a bottle of Jack, still a quarter full. He stared vacantly at the dismal brown paneling across from him. His chest rose and fell with each quivering breath as he studied the lines and color patterns of the wood grain, shoulders slumped with defeat. Although Dean hadn't blinked, a solitary tear washed down the side of his scruffy cheek and tumbled off his chin. He hadn't shaved in more than a week and his beard was now darkening his face with a mixture of reddish-brown and blonde hairs—adding to his rumpled, forlorn appearance.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, voice rough and cracking at the edges with desperation.

Dean gripped the gun forcefully, bringing the Eagle's barrel to his temple. He hesitated for only a split second, then, pressing his lips tightly together, grimaced in resolution, scrunching up his brow and wrinkling his nose. Time stopped and he squeezed the trigger, loosing the bullet and sending it tearing through bone and flesh--the missile finally burying itself into the opposite wall. Dean fell back, his arm going limp at his side as he gazed unseeingly at the ceiling above. The light faded from his green eyes--the last of his salty tears spilling down the sides of his face and mixing with the spattering of blood. His soul ebbed from his body into the waiting arms of the next life, stealing with it all essence of what made him Dean and not corpse.

Bolting upright in the bed, Sam's chest heaved as sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision.

"Oh, God," he whispered softly, brokenly.

Sam whipped his head toward the other twin, eyes searching for a familiar lump. Sprawled out on his stomach, limbs draped over the sides, lay Dean. Sam could hear the soft sounds of breathing that indicated Dean was, indeed, asleep and nothing more.

A nightmare, just a nightmare, thought Sam.

But, not.

Guiltily, Sam shoved that idea into the far recesses of his mind. It couldn't be--he refused to acknowledge the possibility. Dean would never…could never…

With a shake of his head, Sam abandoned the impossible thought in favor of a trip to the bathroom. He slipped from the warmth of his bed and padded quietly across the carpet into the small restroom. Leaving the door open and the light off, he leaned over the sink, one hand bracing his weight while the free one turned on the water. He splashed his face with shockingly cold water, but that did nothing to chase away the image of his brother lying dead, a pool of dark, red blood making a bizarre halo around his head.

"God, Dean," he breathed, running his hands through his shaggy hair.

"What?" a familiar voice intruded.

Sam jumped and spun toward the doorway. Standing behind him, body heavy with weariness, stood a very rumpled, grumpy looking Dean.

"Geez, Dean! Don't you knock?" Sam exclaimed, one hand covering his racing heart.

"Dude, the door's open. What's your problem?" Dean asked, blinking and squinting his eyes in the dimness.

Then, taking in his brother's drained face and the guilty way he was fidgeting, Dean crossed both arms over his chest and shifted back onto his heels. He knew Sam well, so he waited--_observed_.

Sam could _feel_ the weight of Dean's scrutiny.

"I hate it when you sneak up on me like that," Sam answered, shifting his face away from his all too keen brother.

"Sneaking? Since when is taking a leak 'sneaking'?" Dean let that hang for a moment and then said, voice full of big brother intuition, "Nightmare or vision?"

"Huh?" Sam answered stupidly.

Frowning, Dean spat, "Don't jerk with me, Sam. You know what I'm talking about."

"I, uh... I'm not…sure," Sam helplessly stammered.

Dean stared his sibling down from under drawn eyebrows, making the question a flat statement as he said, "You're not sure. Okay, Sam, what's up? What are you _not_ telling me, because, dude, you _so_ know the difference between nightmares and visions."

Looking back at Dean, really looking, Sam found himself thinking, _You look so worn down…so tired. How can I tell you this, Dean? How can I possibly put more on your shoulders?_

Dean hadn't slept much since their dad's death and ever since Oregon, things had gotten worse. His brother had been drinking heavier than usual, suffering from terrible nightmares that left him sweaty and shaking in the middle of the night. Dean had tried to hide it from Sam, but he knew just the same. Sam feared for the toll it was exacting on his brother. But, Dean being Dean refused to share the load, wouldn't talk about the nightmares or acknowledge that he was unraveling a little more everyday. The last thing Sam wanted was to saddle his brother with another thing to worry about. Besides, maybe if he didn't say it out loud, it wouldn't be real.

"Look, Dean, it was probably nothing. Okay? Let's just get some sleep while we can—I'm bushed. Aren't you?"

Maybe if they hadn't been out so late the night before, maybe if the desire for sleep hadn't been so strong, Dean would've pushed it. But Sam could see all his brother wanted was to fall back into bed and let unconsciousness claim him, at least for a few more hours.

"Whatever, man," Dean said as he brushed past Sam and into the bathroom.

Relieved, Sam flopped back into his now cold bed, lay on his back, closed his eyes and willed sleep to come. But all he could see was blood--so much blood--and his brother's sightless eyes leaking tears long after the soul had fled. It haunted him, tore his heart and made him sick to his stomach all at the same time. _God_, he thought again, _what could ever make Dean do such a thing? _

Things had been rough lately, but in the scheme of things, just another chapter in a legacy of loss and pain.

But he knew, Sam_ knew_, this was no nightmare. He just hadn't quite made up his mind to accept that he knew.

As his skin crawled with memory, he heard Dean climb back into his own bed, the springs of the old mattress squeaking in protest. Once his brother's soft snores punctuated the quiet room, Sam allowed himself to open his eyes and turn his head toward Dean. Studying his brother's face in the gray light from the window, Sam noticed how the shadows played softly across his brother's profile and made his eyes seem like endless hollows. Sam shivered and squeezed his eyes shut.

_Just my imagination_, he thought. _It's not real_.

But he couldn't help turning away from Dean, putting the image behind him, before he could allow himself to relax into sleep once again.

The next day shone down on the brothers in all of its springtime glory. The sun warmed their bones and their spirits—the earth seemed to have awakened at its touch. With blue sky above and rich, earthy smells coming from below their boots, both men hankered for a proper breakfast--their stomachs rumbling sharply while their mouth watered in anticipation.

As they walked across the street toward the local Mom and Pop restaurant, they basked in the beauty of nature, a soft breeze tickling their senses and ruffling their hair. It was the kind of day that made men's hearts light, swelling with contentment. Worries were put on pause and everyone seemed to be smiling. Some were whistling or humming softly under their breaths as they shuffled past the brothers--even the birds chirped happily, dizzily dancing from tree to tree in celebration.

Sam ordered the blue-plate special of scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns and a tall orange juice while Dean asked for the ham steak, biscuits with gravy, hash browns and a tall coffee--strong and black, just the way he liked it. Dean was scanning the newspaper bylines for anything that sounded like their kind of 'weird' as Sam scoured the internet, both looking up when the waitress passed by, hoping she was bringing their orders. She smiled kindly as she sashayed past them to the next table, delivering the food to someone else.

Dean met his brother's eyes as he said, "Damn, they must've had to slaughter that pig. What is taking so long?"

Sam's mouth quirked into a dimpled grin as he snorted,"All I asked for was the eggs. How long does it take to scramble an egg?"

"Yeah, well, maybe they're waiting on the chicken to lay 'em first," Dean shot back. "Hope they remember to wash the chicken crap off the shells."

Sam's face screwed up in disgust as he said, "Gross. Man, Dean, why you gotta say things like that?"

Dean simply shrugged and smirked down at the newspaper sprawled out across the table.

"Hey, you were the one traumatized by our up close and personal with farm life."

Sam shook his head, but said nothing.

A few minutes later, Dean scowled as he folded the paper and put it away, saying, "Dude, there's just nothin' going on out there. I've got nada, what about you?"

Sam just grunted and shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the computer screen as his fingers nimbly danced over the keyboard. Then a tap at the mouse pad, and another as he continued his search.

"Huh," Sam said, his eyebrows rising.

Dean looked up, his own eyes going wide with curiosity and anticipation.

"Ya got somethin' there, Sammy?"

"Uh, yeah...maybe."

Dean watched his brother's eyes flick back and forth across the screen, his brows drawn in concentration. Then Sam swiveled the laptop around for Dean to see as he began relating what he'd been reading.

"Looks like Albuquerque, New Mexico has had a rash of unexplained deaths in the last six months, all male." Sam's gaze darted around the small dining area and then settled back on his brother. "Could be a Woman in White or a succubus…whadda ya think?"

"Local authorities just list the deaths as suspicious, no hints as to cause of death--that's pretty vague…could be anything," Dean replied, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Yeah, but, Dean, all men? In the same locale? What are the odds?"

Seeing their waitress coming toward them, the younger Winchester snapped the laptop shut and deposited it on the seat beside him.

"Okay, yeah, it's weird. But, is it _our_ kind of weird?" Dean asked as the waitress set their plates in front of them.

Sam smiled nervously at the girl with the dark ponytail as he kicked his brother under the table.

"Ouch! Dude, that hurt," Dean yelped.

When the girl's attention slid to Dean, Sam threw his brother the brows up, wide-eyed, 'Dude, not now' look.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

"No, thanks," Sam answered quickly and was relieved when she moved on to the next set of customers sitting three tables away.

"Spaz, much?" Dean grumped.

Ignoring the caustic remark, Sam went back to the problem at hand, leaning closer as he took a bite of egg.

"So, what else have we got--we just gonna sit around here in podunksville until something drops into our laps?"

Dean rolled his eyes and took a long swig of coffee before saying, "Okay, alright, we'll check it out. If we leave as soon as we're done, we'll be there by nightfall."

Satisfied, Sam nodded, then gestured toward Dean's plate.

"So, how's the ham? Fresh?"

"Lip-smacking. How's the eggs? Oh, man, Sammy, what is _that_?!"

Sam's eyes flew to the spot where Dean's fork pointed and swallowed hard as he inspected the suspicious off-colored spot. Then, just to prove a point, Sam scooped it up and shoved it in his mouth, chewing and groaning with pleasure, licking his lips.

"Mmmm, good. Want some?"

"Nah, but thanks for the offer," Dean said, putting up a hand palm out.

"Relax, Dean. It's just a clump of pepper or something."

"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, college boy," Dean smirked, digging into his gravy-slathered biscuits.

Sam shot back, "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean asked, eyes questioning as he looked up. Sam's mouth was wide open, displaying his partially chewed eggs mixed with a little sausage.

"Oh, that's just gross, man. And you call _me_ childish."

Sam laughed at his brother's grimace and the rest of the meal was finished in relative peace.

TBC

**A/N2: All my whole-hearted thanks to Mady Bay and Tidia for their awesome beta skills.**


	2. Chapter 2: The Hand of Fate

Chapter 2: The Hand of Fate

The rumble of the Impala seemed loud in the small confines of the car, but familiar and comforting. Sam had fallen asleep about an hour ago sprawled against the bench seat, legs akimbo on the floorboard and lips parted with occasional snores that made Dean's lips twitch. He'd turned the radio off about a mile back, preferring the lullaby his baby made on the road to the hazy static that kept interfering with the radio's only classic rock station. The distant flash of lightening promised rain soon, prompting Dean to press a little harder on the accelerator. He really hoped to be snug in a nice, warm bed before the storm hit.

Racing the weather and lost in thought, he jumped a little at Sam's muffled grunt. He could see Sam's eyes rolling beneath the lids, eyebrows tangled and winkling his brow, a sure indication his brother was locked in either a nightmare— or worse— a desperate vision of someone in trouble. Dean really hoped Sam would just keep sleeping. His brother's constant watchfulness was wearing on his already exhausted body, mind and soul. Every day became more of a burden. He didn't know how much longer he could keep acting the part he was expected to play, to keep moving when all he really wanted to do was disappear, cease to exist, just be numb and void.

Dean mentally shook himself, willed the unwanted thoughts away. He couldn't let Sam down, he had to save him. Save him from himself, from his fate, from what could be if Dean failed. The mere act of thinking about it made him feel old and desolate. Taking the silver flask Bobby had given him so many months ago from inside his jacket pocket, he unscrewed the cap and took a deep pull of the hard liquor—letting it burn a blazing trail down his throat. Then he tucked it back into its hiding place, not wanting to overdo it behind the wheel.

As predicted, Sam sat up with a gasp, wild eyes straining to see past the horrific images still playing out in his mind. Dean gave him a moment to recover and waited for calm awareness to seep back into his brother's features before speaking.

Flicking his gaze over, he asked, "What is it?"

Sam swallowed a few times and then returned the quick flash of green with one of hazel.

"Uh, kid jumping off a cliff…or maybe some kind of tourist lookout point or something."

"A suicide?"

Sam's brow furrowed as he answered, "Um, yeah, I think so…but there was something not right about it."

"What do you mean 'not right'?" Dean swiveled his head toward his brother and waited for the answer.

"I'm not sure…but my visions are always linked to the demon somehow, right?"

Acquiescing that point, Dean shrugged and asked, "Okay, where to?"

"Just keep going in this direction," Sam said, flipping open his phone and making some calls to pinpoint the location from his vision.

oooOOOooo

_Two hours outside Albuquerque city limits, 30 minutes from Canyon Trails Motel._

"You sure this is it?" Dean asked, pulling into a gravel parking lot.

The nice lady running the Canyon Trails Motel had been kind enough to point them in this direction after Sam had failed to get any further with his game of phone tag.

"Yeah, I recognize that sign. Look, there're the steps," Sam answered, pointing to a set of time-worn, wooden planks that barely passed as a staircase leading upward.

Dean quickly surveyed the landscape, noting the area surrounding them was mostly made up of reddish, car-sized boulders and rugged cliffs. The barren rock was punctuated here and there with an occasional bush, scrub grass and long ago dried up remains of trees—but not much else. Cutting the motor, he shut off the headlights and climbed out of the car into the waiting darkness. Sam was already shutting his door with the familiar squeak-slam.

Looking across the Impala's roof, Dean asked, "You think he's up there?"

Lightening streaked across the midnight sky, revealing Sam's answering shrug. "I guess we'll find out."

Both men switched on their flashlights and started climbing, being careful of their footing on the broken steps. The ascent was steep, but it didn't take long before they reached the top and stood looking out across a wooden platform that looked as decrepit and unstable as the steps they'd just climbed. A lone figure stood at the railing's edge, unmoving save for his clothes and hair whipping in the rising wind.

Either unaware or uncaring of the brothers' presence, the boy continued to grip the wooden barrier, repetitively mumbling under his breath, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Giving Sam a 'What the hell' look, Dean stepped forward, saying, "Dude, you mind backing up? That railing doesn't look too stable."

Sam started to move forward, but Dean pressed a hand to his chest—halting the movement. He watched as Dean continued to ease forward, eyes glancing furtively between the flooring and the boy, trying to gage the reliability of the wooden platform and the boy's intentions. The young man, who looked to be all of 18 years old, continued his chant, distressed and desperate.

"Seriously, dude. Just come away from there and, whatever it is, I promise we'll help you fix it."

The boy turned eerie eyes, too old for his face, to Dean and stared a moment—searching—then looked away again.

"You can't help me. No one can."

The boy sounded resigned, lost. The raw desolation made Dean's heart ache.

Dean held out his hand, face softening with compassion as he beckoned to the boy.

"We can. It's what we do. Just—just take a step toward me." Dean continued to ease forward, trying to not spook the kid or fall through the rotted wood himself.

"NO! Stay back!" the boy shrieked, lifting a leg over the railing and dangling half on and half off the sun-bleached posts.

"Look," Dean reasoned, putting up a hand to stop the boy's motion, "just take it easy. We're here to help."

Dean took another step toward the boy. The floor creaked and groaned, pausing his movement and drawing his attention.

"Dean!" Sam warned, questioned—all in that single word. He shuffled from foot to foot, straining to stay put.

"I got it, Sam. Just stay there." Then turning back to the kid, he said, "Don't move. I'll come to you."

The boy's attention seemed to be elsewhere, as if he was listening to something only he could hear. Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks and Dean could see them glistening in the yellow glow of Sam's flashlight. He could see the inner battle taking place between the kid's will to survive and whatever was urging him to take the plunge into the ravine below.

"Hey, kid, don't look down, just look at me, okay?"

Dean was rewarded with the unsteady gaze of scared eyes begging to be saved.

"That's good. Just stay still and keep looking at me."

"But she says I must join her," he hiccupped.

"Who says that?"

"My mom. She says I should be dead like her. I should've died in the accident, too. It was my fault," he whispered.

_Almost there_, Dean thought, but said, "What's your name?"

"Daniel," he answered, voice so young and so uncertain.

"Hi, Daniel. My name's Dean. And, over there…that's my brother, Sam. You got any brothers or sisters, Daniel?"

"M-my brother died with my mom."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dean answered, wincing inwardly. "What was your brother's name?" The question dropped from Dean's lips as a board under his boot broke loose and a chunk careened away into the darkness.

Heart in his throat, Dean grabbed the railing beside him, eyes closed briefly before refocusing on Daniel. Dean hated heights, but he _would_ save this kid. Behind him, Sam had advanced a step but was stopped by another headshake from Dean.

"My b-brother's name was Eddie."

"Eddie," Dean swallowed the name along with his fear. "Listen, Daniel, I don't think Eddie would want you to die. As a matter of fact, I know he wouldn't. He'd want you to live, to remember him and be happy."

Dean was within grasping distance and held out his hand again, his face coated by a sheen of sweat. Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking free drops of rain that dotted their clothes and clung to their eyelashes in wet splashes.

"Come on, Daniel. Take my hand." Licking his lips, he tried his last trick. "Your brother would want you to live."

The spell that seemed to hold the young man prisoner vanished and quickly rising panic replaced it as he became aware of his surroundings.

_Oh, so not good_, Dean thought, _gotta_ _keep him calm_.

Lowering his chin, Dean tried to sound calming, confident—his voice falling to a deeper timbre. "Daniel, just take my hand. I won't let you fall—I promise."

Around them, the wind continued to gust, picking up speed along with the sheets of rain that soaked them through to the skin.

Finally giving Dean his trust, Daniel reached out to take his hand, making skin on skin contact just as the platform broke away from beneath him. Falling forward, Dean found himself lying shoulders over the edge, fingers clasped around the kid's wrist.

Daniel screamed. Looking up, he began pleading, "Please, help me! I don't want to die! Please! Don't let go!"

Without even looking, Dean warned, "Stay back, Sam! I've got him." To Daniel, he called, "Use your other hand to grab onto my arm!"

Daniel flailed wildly, his panicking movements and the buffeting wind loosening Dean's grip, causing broken shards of wood to dig into his side and arm. But he wouldn't fail, couldn't allow it to happen; Dean held on with everything he had. Grimacing against the pain, he choked out, "Daniel, you've gotta stop moving around. Just try to be still and reach up with your other hand."

Dean could feel a little more skin slip through his fingers. The rain made the kid's wrist slippery slick and the swaying was gradually dislodging Dean's tenuous hold.

"I can't!" Daniel yelped, "Please! Don't let go!"

I'm not gonna let go, Daniel, but…" Dean pressed his lips together the effort it was costing him to hang on, "you've gotta help me here."

Behind them, Sam was thrumming with tension. He wanted to help, but was respecting Dean's wishes that he stay back.

"Grab my arm! Please, just—"

Before Dean could finish his sentence, Daniel looked up, something strange reflected in his eyes, glittered with intent, and then he let go—plummeting 15 feet down, hitting hard on an outcropping of rocks before tumbling the rest of the way down and out of sight.

"NO!" Dean screamed, eyes wide, arm still clawing at empty air.

oooOOOooo

Sam turned away, feeling his own stomach clench in disappointment and sickness. When he looked back, he could see Dean's head resting on top of his clenched fist, knuckles turning white.

"Damn it," he heard his brother whisper, and then louder, "Damn it!"

A loud crack and the sound of splintering wood was all the warning Sam had before Dean, too, suddenly disappeared—along with a good portion of the floor.

"DEAN!"

He knew he must've yelled it, must've cried out his brother's name, felt the sting of it in his throat, but the instant rush of blood to his brain drowned out all sound as he ran to where his brother just was.

"Dean!" Sam screamed again, shining his flashlight into the rain, half-afraid to look, to see.

Dean crashed into the same outcropping of rocks, continued to roll out of control over the side and down another few feet onto a flattened, angled cliff. Hitting the cliff, Dean's body slid and tumbled over, not coming to rest for several more seconds until his descent was finally stopped when he slammed—back first—into a sharp, pointed stick jutting up from between the rocks. The limb impaled him, sliding neatly through the fleshy part of his shoulder and stopping Dean from following Daniel over the side into the darkness.

Sam heard the scream tear from Dean's throat, blood curdling and terrifying, felt his own stomach try to crawl up his throat. He swallowed hard and blinked away the rain.

"Hold on, I'm coming! I'm coming, Dean!" he yelled.

But he had no idea _how_ he was going to get to his brother, much less haul him back up and over the fence. He couldn't call 911 and risk Henricksen finding them and they were too far from Bobby's to call for help. Running to the side of what was left of the platform, he looked down and spotted what he judged to be a reasonably safe path down. Rain stung his face and claps of lightening filling his ears as Sam ran down the way they'd come, intent on getting rope from the car.

His lungs bursting from his super-human sprint, he raced back with a long coil of rope and tied it off around one of the boulders set atop the hill for decoration. Carefully, he lowered himself and another coil of rope down to a semi-horizontal ledge just below the lookout point.

Hurriedly, picking his way through the deathtrap, he scampered down to Dean. His brother's head was craned sharply down, chin on his chest—eyes clenched shut and fingers wrapped tightly around the spike, blood darkening his already wet shirt.

"Hang on," Sam comforted, "I'm almost there." Then, reaching Dean's side, Sam whispered, "God, Dean. God."

Dean was panting soft grunts, the stark whiteness of his face glowing in the dark. "S-sam?"

"Yeah, man. I'm here. I'm here." Examining Dean's shoulder, Sam apologized, "I can't break this…and I don't have anything to cut through it. I don't know what—I don't know how to get you out of here."

"Pull me off, Sam," Dean breathed, nodding his permission. When Sam started to shake his head no, he growled, "Pull me off, _Sam_."

"Dean, no."

Sam's mind raced to find an alternative, eyes begging his brother to give him options. Dean's tired gaze met Sam's, nothing there but resignation and pain.

"No choice…you have to."

"What if I make it worse? You could bleed out."

Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Talking was more effort than he was capable of at the moment. "Damn it, Sam! I said pull me off."

Seeing the exhaustion—what it took from Dean to keep talking—Sam quickly nodded once and nervously licked his lips. Dean was right, there was no other way.

Running a shaky hand through his wet hair, Sam looked at Dean again, wanting that connection as he said, "This is gonna hurt like hell, man. You ready?"

Getting a jerky nod, Sam positioned himself as securely as he could, wedging his feet firmly among the rocks for traction. Bending over, he grabbed Dean under the arms, flattened his palms against his brother's back and huddled as close to him as he could and still have room to move.

Taking a breath, he looked into Dean's face. Dean looked back, unwavering, jaw set against what was coming. "I'm sorry," Sam said, meaning it.

He didn't wait for Dean's answer—swiftly, using legs and arms, he pulled his brother straight up and off the limb. Dean's head flew back in a guttural scream, fingers digging into Sam's shoulders painfully. Gently, he lowered his gasping brother to the ground against one of the rocks and then clasped his trembling fingers together as he knelt next to Dean. Sam's mouth watered with sickness and tears stung the backs of his eyes—his brother's crumpled face and scream echoed inside his skull along with the wet pop of gaping wound sliding off wood. He took deep breaths to calm the nausea and gathered his wits—Dean still needed him.

Grabbing the flashlight from his waistband and flipping it on, he began assessing Dean's injuries. Blood and red-tinged rainwater covered Dean's face from a head wound that looked nasty, his left wrist was swollen, and there were several bloody rips in Dean's clothing, but it was hard to see past the onslaught of weather to tell how bad the damage really was.

Swatting his brother's hands away, Dean mumbled, "Okay, Nurse Brunhilda, I'm good. Let's get out of here."

"Think you can stand?"

"One way to find out," Dean answered, struggling to rise.

Placing one of his brother's arms around his neck, Sam helped Dean stand and paused while the other man steadied.

"See," Dean reassured, "piece of cake."

But, the minute they moved into the first step, Dean's knees buckled—nearly toppling them both to the ground. Sam readjusted his grip to include a fistful of jeans, taking most of Dean's weight, and, together, they slowly made their way back to the Impala.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they reached the car, which Sam was incredibly grateful for. Leaning his brother against the Impala, he stripped off his jacket and t-shirt, hoping to use the shirt as a makeshift tourniquet for Dean's still bleeding shoulder wound. Just at the material of his t-shirt cleared his head, he heard Dean crumple into a graceless pile at his feet.

Standing shirtless in the mist, arms still caught in the fabric, Sam mumbled, "Dean?"

Jerking his arms free, he squatted, levered his brother up and patted at his cheeks, calling, "Hey, Dean? Come on, man!"

Getting no response, Sam checked for a pulse and breath sounds, both of which were there—strong and steady.

"All right, let's get you out of here," he said to Dean's slackened face.

He hauled Dean into the front seat and drove one-handed—his other arm wrapped tightly around his unconscious brother, pressing the wrung-out shirt into the gaping wound. Dean's head sagged limp and unresponsive against Sam's chest and no amount of jiggling or calling Dean's name would rouse him. Sam blew through intersections, holding his breath each time and hoping his luck would hold.

Skidding to a stop in front of their motel room, Sam jumped out of the car and ran to the passenger side, flung the door open and reached inside for Dean. Gathering his brother toward him, Sam caught a momentary flash of Dean's eyes in the soft light flooding the parking area. For a split second, he could have sworn he saw an odd _glow_ swirling there, but in a blink's time Dean's lids had slid shut once again—drawing the curtain on whatever he'd seen. Dismissing it as tricks of dim lighting, he hurriedly hauled his brother into a fireman's carry and whisked him inside.

Dean looked much worse in the brightly lit room than he had out on the cliffs. Bloody rivulets running down his forehead, nose and cheeks marred his pale features, his wet hair and eyelashes plastered to his pasty skin. One cheek was covered by road rash and his palms were a raw mess of exposed flesh—as were his knees. Sam stifled a groan of sympathy. Stripping Dean to his boxers, he ran to the bathroom and gathered up all the towels that were available.

Cleaning away the blood and debris, he could see a vast assortment of bruising painting his brother's body like a tapestry—scarlet, violet, ultramarine and Prussian blues everywhere. The largest swatch wound its pattern across Dean's chest and under his arm. Sam was pretty sure that some of Dean's ribs were cracked and winced. His brother was a mess.

Prioritizing what should come first, Sam began sanitizing and sewing up the puncture hole in Dean's shoulder, relieved that vital organs and major veins had been missed. Dean didn't so much as flinch when the needle pierced his skin, so Sam flinched for him, wincing with each stitch. More than once, he reconsidered his decision to handle this on his own—but when it seemed like it was all too much, he remembered Henricksen's threats and told himself there was nothing else to be done.

His needlework complete, Sam carefully positioned his brother onto his side and tightly wound gauze around the wound he'd just sewn. Crimson circles made their stark appearance against the snow white of the bandage before Sam could finish securing it with tape.

_He'll be okay. He's bled like this before. You can handle this, Sam. _He shook his head and pressed on.

The gashes over Dean's right eye and left knee both required several stitches, but the rest he left to a little antibiotic, gauze and tape. Dean's skin was icy-cold from being wet and naked in the chilled room, shivers began to wrack his body one after another, but Sam would take that as opposed to the deathly stillness.

It was extremely odd that his brother hadn't regained consciousness yet, so Sam rechecked his pulse—but it was strong and steady just as before. Next, he checked Dean's pupil reaction—a little slow, but nothing setting off alarm bells. Wearily, he dried off Dean the best he could, stripped him of the soggy underwear and transferred him to the other bed before carefully maneuvering clean, dry boxer-briefs around his brother's wounds and up over his hips. For good measure, he piled two blankets on top of Dean's shaking body, leaving only a sheet for himself. Now all he could do was wait and hope his best was good enough.

TBC

* * *

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who read and reviewed, I'm pleased that you all are ready to take this journey with me and you had so many nice things to say. I hope it will be worth your time and patience. I'll do my best.

To Mady Bay and Tidia, you are so very patient with me, reading this over multiple times to help me get it as right as possible. Thank you for spending your time on me and the story – I wouldn't want to do it without you.

And many apologies to Kohadril who I forgot to thank in the first chapter for answering my multitudes of questions concerning guns.


	3. Chapter 3: Dark Dreams

Chapter 3: Dark Dreams

Sound. It always seemed to be the first thing he became aware of when first regaining consciousness. Not light, touch or anything else, just sound. Even now, he was vaguely aware of a loud, sawing-slurp noise coming from somewhere in the room—but still not conscious enough to be sure what it was he was hearing or how close it was.

He continued to drift closer to the surface like a slow-motion balloon rising softly through the layers of earth's atmosphere. As he drifted from one level of consciousness to the next, he realized the raucous noise was the familiar sound of his brother's snoring. Sammy was here. Sammy was sleeping. Somehow he found that to be comforting…_safe_.

The next thing he became aware of was light. Eyelids still unwilling to cooperate, he could only tell that the room was dimly lit—not bright—like how it was when first waking in the early hours of the morning or late evening when the sun was setting. He quickly moved on from that to…pain. Everywhere there was pain. His head throbbed in time with his pulse. It felt as if someone had peeled back the upper layer of his scalp and was now using his sensitive nerve endings to play bongo drums. Then there was his shoulder, his blazing, white-hot shoulder screaming, "Fire—everybody out!"

He realized he'd been holding his breath against the pain and now his lungs were begging for air. Half-way through the action of taking in a lungful, he let out a strangled yelp of pain as the damage inflicted on his ribs sharply registered with his brain. Although the cry cut off along with his air—and couldn't have been very loud at all—he was immediately aware of the absence of Sam's snoring. Soon replacing it was the subtle sound of someone shifting, rustling on a nearby bed.

Cautiously, he tried again to take a breath—making sure it was slow and carefully controlled. Needing to shift his body out of its time-stiffened position, he held his upper body still and tried his legs. Big mistake—pain shot from his knee all the way to his toes forcing another short grunt of pain. Before he had time to make anymore painful discoveries, the tentative voice of his brother broke the quietness of the room.

"Dean? Can you hear me?"

Unable and unwilling to resist the veiled plea, he responded with gently fluttering eyelids and then a sliver of green as he worked to open his eyes. Slowly, his brother's worried face came into focus and he was surprised by the close proximity of Sam who was squatting next to him. Sam's voice seemed so far away, but he was right there. Blinking to clear his vision, Dean could see his brother's face was pinched in closely masked concern and his blood-shot eyes encircled by dark patches that spoke of a sleepless night.

Dean moved his left arm to cradle his ribs as he rolled to his side, sending shooting barbs erupting from his wrist and reminding him to be careful of sudden movements. Wasn't there anything that didn't hurt? Doubling up against the thrumming of his body, he was unable to muffle the cry that growled low in his throat.

"Hey, hey, I'm here," Sam soothed, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You're pretty banged up, so take it easy."

Dean blinked up at his brother and then tested his voice, which came out as a gravelly whispered, "Wh-what happened?"

"Don't you remember last night? Free-falling from a cliff…getting staked in the back?" Sam tried to jog his memory, purposely saying nothing of Daniel.

Dean shifted his gaze from Sam's face to stare over his brother's shoulder, trying to remember. Bits and pieces of the night before began flashing through his mind. The memory of the cliff and the haunted eyes of a boy just short of becoming a man swiftly sucker punched him in the gut. Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the image, willing it—and the welling pang of guilt—away.

When he opened his eyes again, Sam was leaning over him, preparing to ease him into a semi-sitting position against a mound of pillows. He bit down on the groans that made their way up his throat, hardening his face against the worst of it. Once he was settled, Sam turned back to the nightstand nestled between the two beds and reached for an ibuprofen bottle. That's when Dean noticed the glass of water Sam had retrieved while he'd been lost in remembering.

"Wait," he said, voice throaty. "Good stuff…in my bag."

Quirking his eyebrow, Sam looked at him questioningly and then walked over to Dean's bag, rummaging through it until he found the brownish, plastic bottle snugged under Dean's rolled up jeans. Picking it up, he read the label…both eyebrows rising with curiosity and maybe a little surprise. Percocet was a pain killer used to treat people with chronic, severe pain.

"Dean, where did you get this?"

"Make it three, Sammy," he ignored the question, voice tight, clipped.

Sam's eyes flipped back to the bottle—briefly scanning the label once again before nodding his agreement. He twisted the cap off and palmed three of the flat, white pills, handing them to Dean along with the water. Watching as his brother struggled to down the pills, moving his right arm, oh…so…slowly, Sam stood with his hands at his hips—weight shifting heavily onto one foot and a slight frown creasing his brow. It took all of his willpower to keep from helping.

Instead, Sam reflected, "Good thing you had those. The ibuprofen wouldn't have done much."

Taking the near empty glass from Dean and setting it back on the table, Sam sat back on his own bed, fidgeting with a ragged hole in his jeans, jaw muscles tensing.

Letting his head fall to the side on his pillow, Dean breathed, "What is it?"

Sam started to shake his head, then licked his lips and continued, "Just…are you _okay_?"

He was meeting Dean's gaze head on, but even through all of his physical discomfort, Dean perceived the considerable effort it took for his brother to keep his eyes from skittering around the room. He'd scared Sam—bad.

Trying to smile a little, Dean answered, "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Dean. Please, just…stop. I know you're hurting."

Sam watched as his brother's face grew solemn, weariness joining with the pallor to make Dean age right before his eyes.

Wincing through another breath, Dean replied, "Honestly?"

Sam nodded.

"I…could be…_better_. But…don't worry," another grimace, "I'm okay." _Liar,_ he thought even as he spoke the falsehood, then, _sorry, Sam. You have to be able to count on me._

Uncertainty etched Sam's face—the look of his eyes, the way he held his mouth—but he said nothing. He picked at the jean threads and nodded his head once, letting his brother keep his lie, at least for now.

Dean wished he could soothe Sam's anxiety, but with his whole body screaming at him, it was difficult to think about much else. He sighed deeply—eliciting another gasp-moan as his face skewered up at the sharp bite.

"Dean?" Sam started.

Dean waved him away, nodding his reassurance.

"So…," he swallowed hard, "…find anything useful?" He nodded toward Sam's forgotten laptop on the table.

Giving his brother an incredulous look, Sam asked, "Are you serious? Dean, you were pretty messed up last night. I haven't had time to research anything…I'm still not sure you don't need a doctor. You're wrecked."

"Yeah, well you've got raccoon rings, Rocky, so I wouldn't be talkin'," Dean bit out between light, short breaths. "Look, Sam…we need to figure out…what we're dealing with here."

"And we will, but firsts things first. I need to change your bandage, make sure this doesn't get infected," Sam said, gesturing toward Dean's shoulder.

Dean quickly looked down at the dark maroon of dried blood staining the gauze and then braced himself against a dizzy spell that blurred his perception. Warmth was flooding his body now and his head felt like a cinder block fighting gravity's pull.

"Pills must be kickin' in."

Dean turned sleepy, glazed eyes to his brother—a goofy grin still hanging loosely on his face.

Sam shook his head.

"Ya think?" was all he said, grabbing the med kit and seating himself beside his brother's hip.

Dean's grin grew wider as he asked, "You're not gonna try to take advantage of me in my weakened, drug-induced state are you, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes, muttering, "Yeah, right. In your dreams."

But Sam smiled, just a little, just enough that Dean chuckled low in his throat—instantly regretting it as his bruised and battered body protested through the haze of the drug. Sam looked up briefly as Dean groaned, still holding his side with his good arm.

"Serves you right for being a wise-ass all the time. Now, hold still while I cut this off."

Sam carefully cut through the bandage and then threw the dirty gauze on the floor. His face tightened in a grimace at the sewn puncture hole in Dean's shoulder.

"It looks a little red," Sam commented, using his fingers to examine the angry gash.

"Ow!" Dean batted Sam's hand away. "Dude…sadistic much?"

"Sorry. Just checking for puss."

Things fell quiet between them for a moment, Dean becoming heavier with the drug and Sam busy with his ministrations.

As Sam began winding the fresh bandage around his shoulder, Dean heard himself ask as if from a distance, "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah." Sam didn't look up.

"You…worried 'bout me?" Dean slurred.

That caught Sam's attention. He paused mid-motion and stared hard at his brother—the question taking him by utter surprise. Really_ looking_ at his brother, he noticed Dean was too pale from last night's events and several new bruises along his cheeks and jaw had made themselves known. The cut above his eye was a jagged line of stitches that stretched from his right eyebrow up to the hairline. He looked broken, fragile.

Dean was slumped back, head buried deep in the pillow, neck making a near 90 degree angle as he faced Sam. Hazel eyes held a deep well of unfathomable sadness. Sam felt his gut twist, heart clenching within his chest.

"Yeah, man," he softly reassured, "of course I am."

Dean didn't know where the question had come from anymore than Sam, but his mind was sluggish and he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore so he just nodded. He felt himself blink once, then twice. And that was the last thing he remembered.

Finished with his task, Sam sat watching as Dean faded. Dean's face fell lax, lips parted slightly with soft breathing. Sam had spent so much time with him he realized that somewhere along the way he'd stopped "seeing" his brother. He'd forgotten about the sprinkling of freckles that covered his brother's cheeks and nose and the scar that marred his chin—how Dean's face could look so youthful in sleep but so time-worn and duty-hardened while awake. Dean was such a crazy contrast of boy and man that Sam wondered how his older brother managed to reconcile the two.

Dean had become adept at easing Sam into believing he was indestructible, but now as he lay sleeping, Sam was reminded by each injury gracing his brother's body that he was anything but. It'd taken months for Sam to stop worrying over Dean after he'd nearly lost him following the car accident. And then there was the time before that with his heart. That had been the first time Sam had seen his brother as fragile, losable. But time goes on and he found it difficult to stay on guard. To remember to resist the temptation of the deception.

Then he'd gotten caught up in worry over Dean's mental state, which still scared him sometimes. He'd always seen Dean as a steady rock and it shook his foundation to see him so close to a breakdown—to actually losing it. His brother would deny it, of course, but Sam knew how tightly Dean was holding onto the turmoil inside, fighting every minute to keep it dammed up.

But, again, things had gotten better for a while…at least until Dean's confession of their father's secret. After that, Sam had almost forgotten to worry about Dean at all. He'd been so angry at him for keeping the secret and then so scared of what he himself might become. But the nightmare—couldn't be a vision, right?—and recent injuries had reminded Sam once again not to take his brother's presence for granted. Just like everything else in their lives, Dean could be snatched away just like that…lost to Sam forever. Just like Jess. Just like their Mom and Dad. Just like every good thing that had ever happened to Sam.

He felt Dean's brow. Satisfied that his brother felt cool enough, he decided to use the quiet time to do some research. Maybe he'd have something for Dean when he woke up. As Metallica's "Unforgiven" streamed its melancholy tune from his laptop's speakers, Sam snorted at the appropriateness of the song and began opening web pages, settling into hunting mode. Sam was always at the top of his game when researching for a job.

oooOOOooo

Frantic, wild eyes looked up as a voice screamed, "Please, don't let go!"

"I won't. I promise," he heard himself say back.

As he stared into the eyes of the boy dangling below him, he felt his hold starting to slip. Fear filled Daniel's face as he began to fall away, a look of betrayal crossing his features as he screamed, "NO!"

Heartsick, Dean watched as the boy's body slammed into the cliff below and then tumbled over and over until he disappeared over the edge. He felt his heart twist with grief and rage at his own failing. He should've held tighter, got there faster, used his other hand to hang onto the boy—something, anything that would've made the difference. He heard someone walk up behind him and turned to warn Sam to stay put, only when he turned to look, it wasn't Sam.

Grotesque and bloody, Daniel now loomed over him, his accusing stare boring into Dean's skull.

"You let me fall," came the words, though his lips didn't move.

"No, I tried. You let go." Dean scrambled to a sitting position, looking for something to use as a weapon. He reached for his gun, but it wasn't tucked safely in his waistband where it should be.

Blood now spilling freely from his nose, mouth and ears, Daniel limped toward Dean.

"You let me die."

Backed up against the railing, Dean shook his head in denial, still patting at his body in attempt to find a hidden weapon—something to use for protection.

"No, Daniel. Listen to me, I didn't…you let go."

"Lies. All lies. Now you have to die."

Each hitching step the boy took sounded of popping bones and torn, liquefied flesh.

Stopping within feet of Dean, Daniel pointed a broken, bony finger at Dean and sneered,

"You killed me, Dean. You killed me."

Dean shook his head as if not trusting what he'd heard. The words weren't so much the problem as was the voice used to say them. Just then, when Daniel's unmoving mouth had spoken, it had been Sam's voice Dean heard. Sam's voice accusing him, hating him for what he'd done.

When he looked back up, Daniel held his Desert Eagle steadily against his forehead. He froze, afraid to make a move, afraid he might startle the boy.

"Come on, Daniel. You don't want to do this. Would Eddie want you to do this?"

When Daniel didn't waver, Dean switched tactics.

"Look, my brother needs me. If you kill me, you might as well put a bullet in his head, too, because he needs me. Please, don't do this."

Dean's eyes flicked nervously to the trigger, saw Daniel's fingers tighten around it adding more pressure as he began to squeeze, heard him say in Sam's voice, "You killed him, Dean. Why would you do that? Now you have to die."

Where the hunter knew he should've heard a powerful blast exploding from the gun, he only heard Sam's voice echoing in his ears as white light filled his vision. Blinded, he felt himself falling backwards, stomach clenching with the sudden change of elevation as he screamed his brother's name.

The impact jarred every sore spot on his body, bringing to life pains he wasn't even aware he'd had—a strangled cry caught in his throat. Curling onto his side, he drew in his arms and bent his good leg toward his middle. Dazedly, as he pressed his head into the ground for balance, he realized that he was lying on carpet, not rock. The motel room. But, where was Sam? His heart skipped a beat and his already overloaded mind tried to reason out what had just happened and where he was. Where was Sam? What if something had happened? What if he'd taken off again?

Dean tried to pant through the pain, muscle his way through it and clear his mind, but just before he was able to work up the courage to move, the door opened and the sweetest vision of tall and lanky walked in with an armload of brown sacks. Closing his eyes, Dean grunted his relief through closed, pressed lips. Seeing Dean wadded up on the floor, Sam dumped the sacks on a nearby table and rushed to his brother.

"Dean! Dean, man, you all right?" he asked as he knelt beside him.

"Yeah…super," Dean gasped, his head still resting on the carpet.

Sam began unwinding the tangled sheet from around his brother's bruised body, trying to ignore the heavily mottled skin peeking out from beneath Dean's shirt. Despite his obvious lie, Dean was holding his body rigid-still as Sam worked the last bit of sheet from under his hip.

"Man, I'm so sorry. I thought you'd still be asleep."

"Not your fault," Dean breathed.

"Okay, let's take this nice and slow."

Sam's lips thinned with effort as he gently lifted Dean up and off his side, trying to not to jar his brother's shoulder or ribs any more than necessary.

Dean felt long, thin fingers grasp him under the arms, away from his shoulder, and then a slight tugging as Sam tried to ease him up. Fire ripped through his puncture wound and was accompanied by a stabbing ache in his ribs. His head swam dizzily when he reared back—catching Sam painfully on the chin. Hearing Sam's grunt, he tried to apologize but found he was unable to form the words, too busy fighting the black edges at his vision.

Using his good leg to help support his weight, Dean bit down on his lip, concentrating on keeping his reaction reigned in as Sam got him upright. Several grunts, curses and all kinds of facial acrobats later, Dean was back in his bed propped up on the flat, motel pillows. He leaned heavily into them, his arm still holding his sides and his head digging into the softness, still working on controlling his panting into regular breathing. No reason to be a girl about it.

"Damn," he rasped, "why can't these places…ever have decent…pillows?"

A deflection.

"Well, they probably don't expect to keep beat up wrecks as guests," shot Sam, trying to keep things light as he continued to work his brother back under the covers.

Dean's face pulled down with displeasure as he grunted, "Speak…for yourself. I'm fine."

"Sure you are, Dean. That's why you've been asleep for most of the last 24 hours and can barely move. It's been nearly nine hours since you fell asleep."

Sam whipped his own pillow off his bed and used it to brace Dean's arm, relieving the pull on his brother's shoulder.

"Where…you been?" Dean grunted.

Sam looked up, a faint guilty look flickering across his features as he sat beside Dean's legs.

"I figured you'd be asleep for a while, so I left to scout this place for a library of some sort and some food. No luck on the first, but I finally found a small café at the other end of town."

Dean sniffed the air and could smell the aroma of something hot and familiar. His stomach cramped with emptiness, but bile rose in the back of his throat. Pain was a great appetite suppressant.

"Sorry, Sam," came his soft whisper, "Not feeling it right now."

Sympathetic eyes met his green ones as the younger man said, "Yeah, I know."

Sam doled out another couple of the percocets and handed them over. Dean snagged the pills and dry swallowed them, gagging a little on the pasty texture of the medicine. Sam reached for the glass of left-over water, but Dean stopped him.

"No. Drawer." Dean nodded to the nightstand.

Opening the drawer and looking inside, Sam could see his brother's flask of whiskey resting beside his gunmetal Colt.

"You think that's a good idea?" Sam asked, setting the pain relievers within easy reach.

Dean stared back, sallow and ashen, sweat dampening his hair and running down the sides of his face. He really did look wasted and Sam couldn't deny him escape.

"Never mind," Sam revised, grabbing the flask and passing it to his brother.

Dean took a deep pull of the amber liquid and then let his arm fall by his side, the silver container held lightly by his fingers. A few minutes and pulls from the flask later, his features smoothed out and his breathing eased. Sam was grateful. Watching his brother suffer had become an all too often occurrence and it never seemed to get any easier. Certain that Dean was finally finding some peace, he moved to finish his meal and then perched himself in front of his computer, needing some kind of diversion.

After a couple of hours of surfing the web, checking e-mail and attempting a couple of games of Solitaire, Sam found himself too distracted by Dean's occasional whimpers to pretend any longer. He couldn't deny the growing concern beating a wild tempo inside him. Watching his brother sleeping, he wondered what kind of nightmare had Dean flailing out of bed. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know. Sighing deeply, he snapped the laptop's lid shut and turned out the lights, leaving the bathroom light on and the door cracked open just in case Dean needed him in the dead of night. He'd expected to have difficulty falling asleep, his ever-awareness of Dean so finely tuned, but within a matter of minutes his deep-throated snores joined with his brother's intermittent murmurs. Both Winchesters found the blessed peace of slumber's unconsciousness, one too drugged to dream and the other too exhausted.

TBC

A/N: Right off the bat, let me say how sorry I am I got so far behind. I bet you all nearly forgot what was going on, huh? Well, what can I say, it just couldn't be helped. Super big thanks to all of you who are still reading and many thanks to all who leave reviews…you know I LOVE reading your thoughts and encouragements.

To Mady and Tidia, man, what would I do without you girls? Crash and burn? Thanks for your hard work on this one.

To Tree and Terry, thank you both so much for your invaluable advice…I appreciate it so more than I can say :).

Special shout out to GS, this Metallica's for you!


	4. Chapter 4: Pushing Forward

A/N1: Several people have asked me about where Dean got the Percocet from, that was an oversight on my part, sorry everyone. I had included this information in the last chapter, but it got cut and I forgot to add it back in somewhere. I'm pretending that the Percocet is what was given to Dean by Jo in _Born Under a Bad Sign_…even though they were capsules instead of tablets. I know, I know…but please indulge me.

Also, sorry about the delay, guys…I've actually had this pretty much written since last week, but I think I've reread it a thousand times trying to make everything just the way I want it to be. Some of the lines still don't sound quite right, but I'm fed up with trying to patch it up. Honestly, I could probably say this about every chapter I post, but I just never feel like its quite as good as it should be…there always seems to be areas that bug me, but it would probably take several more days to iron everything out and I promised to hurry up with this one. I feel like I'm moving so slowly and putting in things that don't need to be, but when I look at it, I don't feel like I can really cut much, either. There are just certain things that need to be set up before we can get to the meat of the matter…so sorry if it seems to drag at times.

Despite my considerable insecurities about it, I'm posting this as is and hoping that you all will be a forgiving audience, i.e. I'm throwing myself on your mercy. Sometimes I think I understand why Van Gogh cut his ear off and basically lost it.

* * *

Chapter 4: Pushing Forward

Though his sleep had been dreamless, it was much too short lived—a loud boom of lightning coupled with the pinging rap of hail on the window bringing Sam instantly awake in the early pre-dawn hours. Hail in Arizona was unusual and he rolled over to watch the quick flashes of silver play across the curtains for a moment, making sure all was well before settling back into the bed.

Burying his face into his pillow, Sam sighed contentedly, nuzzling the softness against his cheek as he draped one long leg over the side of the bed. It wasn't long before he found himself perched on the edge of slumber, rain and hail forgotten as the pleasant nothingness beckoned him to come. Before he could make the journey complete, his ears honed in on a short gasp of breath punctuated with soft grunts as someone on the other bed stirred and shifted—effectively jerking him back to reality like a bungee cord.

Sam knew he wasn't supposed to hear, but he did and he knew what it meant. Dean was awake and Dean was hurting. Stifling his own groan of displeasure, he swung his feet down to the floor and threw the covers away from his body, the coolness of the room provoking a shiver and the prickly feel of goose bumps on his flesh. Flicking on the bedside lamp, he yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop, and then sat blinking into the bright assault of light invading his eye sockets.

"Dean. You okay?"

Dean had stilled and pretended to be asleep, but upon hearing his name, he squinted up through his lashes and grumbled, "Except for that bright light shining in my eyes—groovy."

It had been the angry growl of an injured animal, pain taking away most of the heat and leaving behind misery in its wake.

"Sorry," Sam responded, unperturbed, before popping off the child-proof cap and handing two pills to Dean.

Grabbing the water glass, Sam rose to fill it and returned just as Dean was inching and grimacing his way higher up on the headboard. Reaching down with his free hand, Sam patiently took his brother's arm and helped him the rest of the way up.

"Wanna watch some TV?" he asked, knowing the meds would take a while to kick in.

Dean nodded.

"Yeah, that'd be good."

Snagging the remote, Sam slumped onto the bed and began cruising the channel listings.

Choosing the World War II classic, "The Longest Day", Sam glanced at Dean asking, "This okay?"

"Yeah," Dean grunted out, "now…all we need is a…big…bowl of…popcorn."

Seeing Dean wrestling with one of his pillows, Sam immediately readjusted it for him, hovering a minute or two before heading back to his own bed. The elder responded with another grateful nod, eyes closed against his discomfort as he breathed steadily through the worst of it. Gradually, Dean was able to force the lines in his face to relax along with the rest of his body—allowing Sam to also relax and turn his attention away from him.

After about thirty minutes of flickering black and white images, Dean melted against the bed—the chemicals infusing his bloodstream with blessed relief and allowing him to fall back to sleep. Looking over at the clock, Sam knew the sun would be up in another hour or two, so he decided to put his time to good use and fired up his laptop. Sleep could wait. Now was the time to work.

oooOOOooo

Another dead end. He'd been scouring the internet for hours, coming up with one dead end after another. Frustrated, Sam pushed away from the table and stretched backward against his chair, listening to the pop-crack that traveled up his spine. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he sighed. He'd hoped to have some hard facts for Dean when he awoke, but a couple of newspaper reports containing vague information about the victims were all he'd come away with. He'd even made a few phone calls once he felt confident it was a decent time of day to do so, but that had only gotten him so far. What he really needed right now was a good library and some caffeine.

Drowsily, he yawned again, his body protesting his mind's refusal to give it rest. Coming up on noon, it was too late to go back to bed and, besides, Dean's meds had long since worn off and he expected Dean to wake any second. Briefly, he wondered if he dared leave his brother alone long enough to run out for some snacks, anything that would cease the grumble-grumble-growl of his stomach.

Remembering the fully-stocked gas station a few miles down the road, Sam decided it was worth taking a chance. Maybe they'd have those battered potato quarters Dean liked so much. Grabbing his jacket and whisking out the door, Sam stepped out into the rising heat of day, surprised at how quickly the weather could change in this part of the country, but glad the inclement weather had passed.

It felt good to get out of the stuffy little room and into the sun. His skin warmed and with it, his heart. Almost feeling optimistic in the glorious light of day, Sam began to whistle to himself as he pulled into the gas station's parking lot. Just as he thought, they sold a variety of lunch-time junk food complete with nachos and hot dogs. Having placed his own order, he asked for Dean's potatoes and then wandered over to the coolers to grab a soda for himself and a Gatorade for Dean. He knew it wasn't his brother's choice of drink, but it would help re-hydrate his body.

Passing by the candy racks, a bright yellow package caught his eye. Peanut M&M's—Dean's favorite. Okay, so maybe candy wasn't the best food choice ever, but it had peanuts and peanuts were good for you, right? Sam quickly snagged a couple of bags and then made his way back to the cashier. Pleased with his thoughtful selections, he headed back to the motel.

Swinging the door open, spilling light across the beds and floor, he was almost disappointed to find Dean still sound asleep. _Oh well,_ he thought,_probably better for him to sleep as much as possible_. Sitting at the small brown table, he dug into the sacks and began munching on the food he'd bought, looking through his notes as he did. Sam had just finished clearing away his leftovers when his good mood came to a full stop.

It started with a grimace. As the expression deepened, a small murmur escaped Dean's lips and was quickly followed by a head twitch. Next came an involuntary jerk of his whole body that signaled the distress of a worsening nightmare. This time the murmur came out as a breathily gasped moan. Dean's head continued to periodically pivot against his pillow, his hands wadding up the sheet in a white-knuckled grip.

Uncertainly, Sam moved toward his brother's bedside, still unsure of whether or not he should intervene. Reaching down to place a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, Sam meant to jostle him slightly, hoping that'd be enough to either wake his brother or at least settle him. Instead, Dean's eyes flew open and his right hand latched onto Sam's forearm in a death grip, his head coming up off the pillows with a strangled gasp.

"Easy, easy, it's okay," Sam half yelled in his own fright.

Dean's eyes pressed shut as he lowered his head. Sam could hear the small huffs of breath coming through his brother's nose, could see the slight sheen of sweat dampening Dean's face. Releasing his grip on Dean's shoulder, Sam moved to give Dean some space, but his brother neither let go of his arm nor eased the pressure of his fingers biting into Sam's flesh. Not knowing what else to do, Sam sat beside Dean, alarm increasing along with his confusion at Dean's reaction. White-faced, Dean didn't seem in any hurry to open his eyes or let go of Sam.

"Dean?"

No answer.

"Ya'okay?"

Dean seemed to come out of it after a minute, dropping his hand next to his side and sparing a furtive glance at his brother.

"Yeah. M'fine," he said, his voice rough and unsteady.

Sam didn't bother to move, wasn't sure he was ready to break the connection of his hip brushing next to Dean's.

"What was that all about?"

Dean shook his head, obviously unwillingly to talk about it, and struggled to sit up.

"Gotta take a leak," he muttered gruffly, biting down on each word as his body came alive with pain once again.

"Yeah, sure, but Dean…we need to talk. Something's going on with you."

Flashing him a look, Dean's eyes plead with Sam to drop it. And that one look was so full of need, Sam did.

Moving to help him, Sam slipped Dean's bum leg from under the covers to the floor. Grabbing his brother just above his elbow, Sam helped him sit up.

"Ah! Dude, easy!" Dean complained.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, wincing in sympathy.

Finally upright, Dean signaled Sam with one hand to give him a minute. Using a breathing technique their dad had taught them, he concentrated on pushing the pain away with each breath, sealing it away and calming his body's physiological reactions back under his control. Nodding, Dean braced himself to stand.

"You ready?"

"Let's do it," he barked.

Sam's hands came around him, bracing and supporting as much of Dean's weight as possible.

As Sam helped pull him up, he couldn't stifle the cry that came.

"Ahh-ha, mmmm!"

Sam felt Dean's fingers digging into his biceps, but took the pain silently as his brother stood leaning into him, needing the support to keep his feet. Dean's face blanched several shades whiter than before, accentuating the bruises and scraps that stood out in various places. Sam heart tightened in his chest. Why did it always seem like Dean was the one getting hurt? It was something Sam would _never_ get used to.

"'kay?" Sam asked, needing reassurance.

"Yep," came Dean's clipped reply.

"Okay, here we go."

Positioning himself on Dean's left, Sam placed a hand under his brother's elbow, giving him as much space as he dared and slowly, they moved forward. The first few steps were the hardest, causing Dean to give most of his weight to Sam, but by the time they'd reached the door, he'd limbered up enough to take most of his own weight. Entering the tiny, lackluster bathroom, Dean pulled the door closed, flipped on the light and then turned toward the mirror, looking at his image reflecting back at him.

_Holy hell_, he thought, _no wonder Sam keeps looking at me like that_. His face was ashen with a circle of white lining his full lips, his eyes were little more than dark craters sunken under his eyebrows, and to complete the picture was a conglomerate of purples, yellows and greens decorating his jaw and cheek bones interrupted by an occasional blaring red scrape. At least they had thought to cover the equally ugly-looking gash, with its dried blood and black webbing of stitches, with a well-placed square of gauze.

When he finished his bathroom business and opened the door, Sam moved forward to help once again, but Dean stopped him with a look and head shake. Still, Sam didn't move far, keeping close by…just in case. As he watched Dean labor toward the bed, he decided now was as good a time as any to bring out the goodies from the gas station.

"Hey, you hungry…'cause I went out earlier and got some stuff," Sam tried.

"Pass," Dean gasped, slowly lowering himself to the bed's edge.

His face was beaded with sweat from the effort it had taken to move across the room, but he was determined to will himself through this. Sam watched as he retrieved his flask from its resting place among the blankets and took a pull.

"Dean, it's been over a day since you ate anything. Look," Sam pilfered through the sacks, "I got you Gatorade and some M&Ms."

Wrinkling his nose, Dean said, "Really, I'm good."

Looking like a little boy trying to please, Sam pulled out the white sack of fries.

"What about this…I brought plenty of ketchup..."

Dean watched Sam waving the sack back and forth, trying his best to make it look tempting to his brother. He knew Sam would be set on seeing him eat something and maybe fries wouldn't be too bad—anything to put Sam's mind at ease.

"Tell you what, little brother. Toss me the ibuprofen and you've got yourself a deal."

Relieved, Sam said, "Okay, but it's been a while since you had the pain meds. It's okay if you need a couple."

"Nah, they make me too groggy. This'll be fine."

He took the brownish caplets Sam offered, giving his brother a patient look.

"I think I can handle opening the bottle, Sam."

"Really," Sam started, "'Cause, that wrist still looks a little swollen and I know your shoulder's got to be on fire."

Sam dumped the fries into Dean's lap and handed him his sports drink. Casting his brother a disgusted look, Dean waved the yellow-green bottle away.

"C'mon, Dean. You need something to keep you hydrated besides just Jack.

"Ah, geez, Sam. You're such a killjoy." But he took the bottle anyway, setting next to him unopened.

"Whatever, Dean. So, while you were sleeping, I did some research…"

"Didn't you sleep?" Dean interrupted.

Confused, Sam replied, "Uh, no. I thought you wanted to find out what's going on."

"Well, yeah," Dean said, "but you look worse than me, Sam."

Rolling his eyes at that, Sam retorted, "I highly doubt that. Have you seen yourself? Besides, I've had less. In fact, I used to pull all-nighters studying for school exams."

Sam smiled wistfully.

"There was this one time, my roommate and I went forty-nine hours straight without sleep. We were on break and decided to have a little PS2 competition between us. Those were good times."

Dean's face clouded a minute, uncertainty plain in his eyes, but Sam missed it.

"Anyway, I'm not the one who just bounced down a mountain and stabbed myself with a stick, dude."

Sam paused his rambling waiting for Dean's response, knowing he'd have something to say in return. But Dean didn't seem to be paying any attention to his brother; his head was cocked slightly to the side as he frowned and his eyes were unfocused and glazed.

"Dean? What is it?" Sam asked after a few minutes.

But Dean didn't hear him; he was busy listening to something else—his face screwing up like he'd been sucking on a lemon. Whatever it was, it passed and he suddenly became aware of Sam half-standing from his chair, calling his name. Little brother was looking seriously alarmed.

"What?" Dean asked, puzzled by Sam's concern.

"Whatta ya mean 'what'? You left me there for a minute, man. Completely gone. What's going on with you?"

Dean shook off the chilled feeling that snaked up his spine, answering, "I don't know…just…it's nothing." He shrugged then changed the subject, asking, "So, what did you find out?"

Sam stood, crossed the room, and placed the back of his hand against his brother's forehead. Dean batted it away, giving him cross look.

"Hands, dude? And, what? Am I two?"

"No, and you're not running a fever, either. That was weird."

Dean snorted then. Smirking he said, "You're..._weird_."

"Whatever," Sam volleyed back. "Seriously, man, you're freaking me out. Talk to me."

"Sam, please."

Irritation darkened Sam's face and he huffed a disgusted sigh before moving to sit at his laptop, rummaging through his notes. "I didn't find much. Can you believe this town doesn't even have a library…of any kind? What kind of town doesn't have a _library_?"

Looking at Sam like he was the one who should be worried about, Dean said, "Just calm down, geek-boy and tell me what you _did_ find."

"Well, our victims seem to have one commonality among them. They all heard voices telling them to do things or were seeing things that weren't real."

"What kind of things?" asked Dean, massaging his temple.

"Well, it pretty much varies with the person. AND," Sam enthused, "they all started having headaches—severe migraines—just about the same time as they started hearing the voices."

Dropping his hand away from the building ache behind his eyes, Dean pursed his lips, saying, "So what're we thinking here, ghost, demon, black magic?"

"I'm not sure. There's not enough information to go on, but I don't think it's a ghost." Sam sipped his soda, waiting to see what Dean would say.

"Okay, I guess we need to speak to the relatives, see what else we can find. Do we have addresses?"

"All but one. Apparently, the man who killed himself last month was homeless. No one even knew his name."

"Well, I've got nothing planned for today…and I know you don't, so I let's poke around and see what we can find."

Dean picked at his fries, making a lame attempt at looking like he was eating them. Finally, he flopped the cold piece of potato on the cardboard container, past caring if Sam noticed.

"Do you really think you're up to that?" Sam asked, his eyes not missing a thing.

"Sure, why not?" Dean challenged. He looked up at Sam, dared him to say it.

Shaking his head incredulously, Sam responded, "All right. Have it your way." Then, a little more quietly, his voice pitched an octave lower, "Stubborn ass."

Dean couldn't help but smile a little at that.

oooOOOooo

A half hour later found them standing outside Kelsey Landers' ornate wooden door. Sam's eyes covertly slid to his brother, watching, checking and anticipating—but trying not to look like it. Not completely oblivious of Sam's scrutiny, Dean refused to meet the glances and stood still and casual. Ignoring the dampness breaking out across his brow and temples, he wondered again what was taking so frickin' long to answer the damn door. Blessedly, rescue came in the form of a delicate looking, yellow-haired woman who he assumed would be their first interviewee. Smiling politely with sad, wide-set eyes, she waited patiently for them to state the purpose of their visit.

"Afternoon, Ma'am," Sam smiled gently, "I'm Detective McRaney and this is my partner Detective Parker."

An expression of repugnance glimmered across Dean's features, but he recovered quickly and vowed to make Sam suffer. Everyone knew that Rick was the cool brother in Simon & Simon.

Sam had caught the brief falter and had to swallow a rising grin as he soberly announced, "We're here to follow up on some questions we had concerning your brother's recent death." At her quizzical expression, Sam asked, "You _are_ Kelsey Landers, right?"

"Oh, uh, yeah…but I've already spoken to the police."

"Yes, Ma'am, we know, but given all the recent deaths, we've been asked to do some further investigating."

Sam was good, Dean admitted to himself, scary-good.

The Landers woman hesitated for moment, looking unsure and uncomfortable. Though reluctance obviously weighed heavy on her, the petite woman finally nodded her head and moved aside, allowing them to enter. She led them through a door on the right into an immaculate, well-lit living area and gestured for them to sit on the sage green sofa sitting in front of a large picture window. Sam waited for a limping Dean and then fidgeted as his brother carefully eased himself down to the edge of the couch.

Addressing the blatant curiosity showing on the woman's face, Sam explained, "My partner was in a little 'on the job' accident this week. He's still a little sore."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she said as Dean smiled politely and nodded.

Taking a seat in a matching rocking recliner, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for the questions to come.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, her voice a projection of her timid appearance.

Clearing his throat, Sam asked, "Before your brother's…death, had he been depressed or acting strange?"

"Well, ya see, that's the thing. My brother was one of the most upbeat, happy-go-lucky people you'd ever want to meet. There were no signs of depression whatsoever. In fact, he'd just started a new job that he'd been very excited about."

"Really?" Sam answered, taking notes as she talked. "And, problems like this don't run in the family?"

"Like I told the officers before, no. As far as I'm aware, no one in our family has ever been depressed or suicidal."

"When was the last time you and your brother spoke?" This from Dean.

"A week ago. He'd come by for dinner with me and a friend. I'd made fresh hot rolls for him…they were his favorite."

Her eyes misted over at the memory and her throat worked up and down, trying to swallow back the tears.

"I'm sorry, I know this is hard," Sam said, voice and eyes full of empathy. After she nodded for him to continue, he asked "That night, did he say anything odd or act differently?"

"He seemed a little edgy…kept dazing off—like he was lost in thought. Once, he jumped up in the middle of dinner to stare out the window, like he was watching something."

"Did you ask him what it was?"

"Yeah. He said it was nothing, probably the neighbor's kid. After that, he seemed upset and left saying something about needing to go home and get some rest…I think he was getting another one of those migraine headaches."

"Right, right. That was in the reports we've read. How long had he been having the headaches?"

"I don't know, exactly, it was recent though. He never had them before and I'm sure it couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks at most."

Sam wrote on his pad, nodding as he did.

"It was just a short time after that he was arrested for attacking a guy who was with his girlfriend, right?"

Nodding her head, Miss Landers replied, "Yes, that's correct. My brother kept saying that Glen—his best friend and Dana's _ex_-boyfriend—was going to kill her. Thing is, Glen died over a year ago, the guy he attacked was actually Randy, the neighbor." Shaking her head sadly, she continued, "He said he had to stop him, th-that he was a monster, evil."

"And, what did you make of that—I mean, how do you explain that? Didn't the fact that your brother was seeing a dead man trigger warnings that he might be unstable?"

"He's my brother," she said, her lip trembling. "I didn't know what to believe, ya know? He'd been in a bar fight just the week before. Said that it was self-defense, said that was Glen, too…but it was just some random guy. But he'd never acted like this before. I was concerned and tried to get him to see a doctor."

Dean could her Sam's voice droning on, asking more questions, but he'd lost track of the conversation about two questions ago. Suddenly hot, the kind of hot that ends up with someone's shoes paying the price, he pulled at his collar and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. A strange hum resonated inside his head, almost a voice, but not quite and vertigo made the room pitch and sway. He strained to hear the words, to focus on where it was coming from. Looking around the room, he realized his vision was out of focus, blurring a little. Reaching up with his thumb and index finger, he rubbed at his eyes, hoping to clear them.

His distress must have been obvious, because the next thing he became of aware of was a female voice asking him if he was okay. Taking in a deep breath, he tried to shake the cobwebs loose and mumbled that he was fine. Two pairs of eyes were on him, the latest set belonging to a wide-eyed Sam.

"You okay, man? You don't look so good."

"Uh," he stalled, "yeah. May I use your restroom?"

"Oh, sure," the Landers woman jumped up, "it's right down the hall, second door to the left."

Sam had also risen and was gripping Dean's elbow firmly, supporting him as he stood. Grimacing, Dean couldn't help the hiss that escaped. Maybe he should've taken the pain pills after all. And maybe this whole trip hadn't been one of his better ideas. No point in giving Sam a big head, though. He just needed a moment to clear his head.

As he moved rigidly toward the restroom, he overheard Kelsey asking Sam he was okay, followed by Sam's tight-lipped response of uncertainty. Even as he exited the room, he could feel his kid brother's eyes on him, searching and ever-wary.

Dean shut the door on both of them with a click and then pushed the lock. Leaning his hip against the counter, arms slack at his sides, he let his head hang. He just needed to be alone for a minute, out from under the microscope.

Pulling in deep breaths through his nostrils and then blowing out through his mouth, he growled a whispered, "C'mon, Dean, get it together."

Turning on the faucet, he bent over as far as his injuries would allow and began splashing the cold, biting water on his face, taking a moment to swish some in his mouth and spit it out again. Shutting off the water, he dried the water from his face with a fluffy flowered towel hanging from a ring next to the sink, then froze—the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood up as the room became ice-cold.

"_Why?"_

Dean tensed. _What the hell?_ he thought to himself, jerking toward the door behind him, then checking the tub to his right. Nothing. Nothing was there.

"_Why, Dean?"_

Just out of eyeshot, Dean glimpsed a shadow passing across the mirror and quickly spun to meet it, forgetting what a bad idea quick movement was.

"Ah!" he cried out, forearm pressed against his ribs as he bent forward, a one-handed brace on the countertop kept him from falling forward.

Suddenly, he felt invisible hands touching him, dipping into him and the hum in his head rose to a crescendo. Nausea rolled over him and he gagged.

Even as he fell to his knees in front of the pristine toilet, retching his insides out, he could hear whispers brushing the back of his mind, frenzied, muddled and rushing loudly into a whir of overwhelming sound. The sharp pain that shot through his left knee it collided with the floor barely registered at all. The ache of his ribs and throb of his head only added to the cacophony of sounds and feelings that assaulted him mercilessly. All he could do was hang onto the porcelain rim and ride out the wave of nausea.

Once the gagging subsided, he slumped to the floor, his hands clasped over his ears—fingernails piercing his scalp—desperation to quiet the anxiety coiling within, to quiet the dissenting voices. But the pull on his mind was too strong, he couldn't claw his way out of it or push it way, so he did the only other thing he could think of…he let it take him. And, take him it did, like a strong Atlantic current swallowing him under its depths. His last coherent thought as he fell into the darkness was to wonder who was screaming with so much agony and despair.

TBC

* * *

A/ N2: I want to thank both of my betas for all of their patience and help, as always. Special thanks to Mady for her enthusiastic response which encouraged me to go ahead and "just post it" and for not pointing and laughing at the keyboard imprints left in my forehead.

Last note: Apparently chapter three isn't showing up for some people…so I'm leaving a link to chapter three as found at my LJ:

http://novembersguest.


	5. Chapter 5: What Waits in the Dark

Chapter 5: What Waits in the Dark

As Dean hobbled out of the room, Sam suppressed the aching need to rush to his side and help. He wanted to yell and demand to know what was going on. Sam's instincts screamed at him that something was terribly wrong with Dean, something more than his injuries could explain. Dean had seemed agitated. His face had gone green like the sky before a spring hail storm; his breathing rapid and shallow. His hands had trembled and shook. All signs of distress, of something beyond the pain.

Of course, it didn't help that Sam could no longer deny the obvious connection between these victims and his vision of Dean. He didn't want it to be true. Sam didn't want to believe anything could drive his brother to such an act, but to discount such a coincidence would be a foolish and dangerous. He hadn't realized he'd fallen silent until the gentle voice of the woman across from him broke his thoughts.

"Is he okay?"

Sam met her cornflower blue stare for moment, then shook his head as his nervous hands moved up and down his thighs.

"Uh, yeah, I think so. I tried to tell him it was too soon to come back to work."

A lop-sided smirk and then Sam smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

The woman's expression shifted as she said, "Look, let's be honest here. I can see that you're worried about him…he's not really your partner is he?"

The question took Sam with such surprise that he caught himself shaking his head in confirmation before he realized it.

Kelsey chuckled at Sam's bewilderment.

"It's all right, I'm no fool. It doesn't take a genius to know you boys are far too young to be detectives."

Gaping now, Sam stuttered, "Well, we uh…we're just, uh…"

Then she did laugh. He'd expected to be thrown out immediately, or at least be threatened with a call to the cops. But she did neither and he didn't know what to make of that.

"Brothers, right? I can see a little bit of resemblance. It's okay. I'm not mad. Just tell me what's really going on here. I'll help if I can."

Giving himself a shake, Sam answered, "Yeah, he's my brother. We're trying to find whatever's causing this and stop it. I guess you could say it's what we do."

"So, you don't believe this is all just a coincidence?"

Sam could hear the relief in her words, relief that someone else believed in the same things she did.

"No, Ma'am, we don't. We think something's making these people kill themselves."

She nodded—confirmation, understanding or maybe both in the gesture.

"Well, thank God. I was beginning to think I was crazy. Cops just wrote me off as a bereaved family member. So, who are you really?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but the words never came. Dean's panicked cry ripped through every fiber of Sam's being, suffocating him with fright and sending his heart tripping into double time. For a split second, his eyes met Kelsey's, hers equally round, then his long legs propelled him from the couch and down the short trip from the hall to the bathroom—Dean's name already falling from his lips.

Reaching the door, he jerked and twisted the knob, shoving at the wooden barrier with his shoulder as he continued to call Dean's name. Quickly recognizing the futility of it, Sam backed up and then slammed his booted foot against the frame with all his might, his lips drawn back in a ferocious snarl. He didn't wait for the door to crash against the wall—falling immediately next to his unconscious brother.

Dean lay on his left side, one hand still pinned beneath his head, the other open and lax in front of his face. His legs had drawn up to his stomach, making him look small and vulnerable. Gripping a handful of Dean's shirtfront, Sam jerked his brother upward, nestling him against his chest.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up! Hey, hey…open your eyes."

Laying his fingers lightly on Dean's jugular; the beat, beat, beat of his brother's heart pounded its pattern on his fingertips. Sam began patting Dean's white-washed cheeks, hoping to get a response.

From over his shoulder Kelsey said, "I'll call an ambulance!"

"No! No, just give him a minute," he shouted, stopping her with his command.

She peered over his shoulder, to see Dean's eyes were already rolling around under his lids. Pressing a hand to her heart, she watched Dean push his eyes open, responding to his brother's demands—unable not to.

"Dean, can you hear me, man?"

Flailing, Dean struggled up, fear making his movements erratic and wild, his breathing hitched. He shoved away from his brother with more force than Sam would've thought possible, given his injuries, and crab-crawled backward, whimpering deep and low when he could go no further. Terror-wide eyes skittered around the room and Sam found himself compelled to look around for whatever inspired such fear in his brother.

Alarmed, but finding no sign of malice in the room, Sam continued to kneel, held up his hands, palms outward, and spoke gently to his brother.

"It's okay, man. It's me, it's Sam."

Dean drew his knees to his chest, a pained grunt the only due he gave his injuries before he once again slapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. A keening moan mixed in with a huff of air as he sat trembling against the bathroom cabinet. Sam eased slowly toward him, keeping his hands up and his voice low.

"Easy, Dean. Just take it easy, man. You're okay, it's gonna be okay."

Reaching fingertips out, Sam began rubbing the tops of Dean's knees, working to soothe him.

"What is it? Dean, talk to me…what is it?" he gently prodded.

Dean suddenly buried his palms into his eye sockets and leaned forward until the backs of his hands rested on top of Sam's—stilling the rubbing motion. Sam pulled one hand free, scooted closer to his brother, and began to rub his back—something he hadn't done for Dean in a long time.

"Come on, man…," then leaning in, Sam whispered, "…you're scaring me here."

Dean's muscles bunched and twitched under Sam's hand—Dean's head came up and his hands fell away. Face blank, he blinked repeatedly as if trying to clear his vision.

"Sam?"

"Yeah…"

"Where…?"

"Kelsey Lander's…remember?"

Blindly, Dean moved to rise, then winced as the motion tugged his ribs and shoulder. Sam took his elbow with one hand and slipped the other behind his brother's back, hooking his finger through a belt loop for leverage.

Kelsey rushed forward to support Dean on the opposite side, asking Sam, "Living room?"

Sam nodded and together they helped Dean to the couch. Sam had to get his brother out of there and back to the motel room before he could properly interrogate him, but not until Dean was a little steadier on his legs. They settled Dean onto the couch and Miss Landers disappeared for a few minutes, coming back a moment later with a glass of water and a wet cloth.

"Here, try these," she said, holding the items out to Sam.

He took them and flashed a grateful smile in her direction. Dean was resting his head on the back of the couch when Sam touched the cooled rag to his brow. Violently, Dean jumped at the contact and batted his brother's arm away.

"Whoa, hey, it's just a wash cloth."

"Don't need it," Dean complained, covering his embarrassment at being startled.

Sam tossed the rag onto the coffee table in front of them and offered the water.

"Here, drink this."

"Dude, stop telling me what to do," Dean growled, the words slurred and weak sounding.

Unsuccessful with both measures, Sam grunted his frustration, "Dean, why do you have to be such an _ass_?"

Rolling his head toward his brother, Dean flatly said, "Not _now_, Sam."

Shaking his head in disgust, Sam scoffed, but let it be. His brother's jumpiness was beginning to rub off on him, but pushing Dean wasn't a good idea, either.

Kelsey looked from one brother to the other, sensing this wasn't an unusual exchange between the boys. Cautiously, she broke the tension, asking, "Is there anything I can do?"

Both Winchesters fixed their gazes on her, surprised to find her still there.

"No, thanks," Sam answered, followed by Dean, who said, "Time to go, Sam."

"You sure you don't need a minute?" Kelsey offered.

"I'm good. Thanks." Dean hardly glanced at the woman so intent was he to keep his eyes averted and get himself together.

With stop-go movements, and Sam's assistance, Dean got to his feet and struggled toward freedom. The voices had stopped the moment Sam had uttered the words '_scaring me'_ and now that he could feel his strength returning, getting out of there became priority.

Kelsey followed behind them, but when they reached the door she paused and said, serious and no nonsense, "If there's anything, anything at all I can do to help, let me know. I want to help stop this if I can."

His lips twitching, Sam replied, "Thanks, we'll call you if we think of anything."

Grabbing onto Sam's sleeve, she held him back, eyes on Dean who shuffled out to lean against the porch rail, pulling in deep breaths, then whispered, "Watch out for your brother, this thing works quick—it took my brother within two weeks."

Tears welled up in her eyes then spilled down her cheeks as she broke the contact and shut the door. Shaken, Sam turned back toward Dean and a stab of unnamed emotion pierced his heart. It was loss…loss of Dean that made his heart rend in half. Even though Dean stood right in front of him, the feeling was real—real enough that Sam suddenly needed to have physical contact with his brother. Striding quickly to him, Sam grasped his brother's upper arm and held on tight, under the guise of lending a hand.

Still feeling woozy, Dean willingly accepted the gesture and thought nothing more of it until he noticed Sam practically walking in his skin. Glancing at Sam's face, Dean wondered at the dark, broody look that hung there. More than concern, more than worry, Sam looked positively frightened. If he'd had the strength—the presence of mind—he'd have demanded to know what had scared his brother white-faced, but he was doing good to remain on his feet. There was always later. And with Sam he knew that to be especially true. Kid brother was like a dog with bone and whatever it was wouldn't go away without being discussed.

The ride back to the motel consisted of Sam hanging onto the steering wheel as if it were his life-line and Dean leaning heavily against the bench seat, head resting against the tan leather, expression closed. By the time they pulled up to their room, Sam's hold hadn't loosened much, but Dean had shifted and now slept with his forehead pressed against the glass of the passenger side window. Little lines and red smudges were forming where the skin bunched against the glass. Sam cut the engine and sat for a minute listening to Dean's measured breathing. He let Kelsey's words echo through his mind and remembered Dean's frenzied reaction in the bathroom. _Where do I begin?_ he thought.

With a heavy sigh, he pocketed the keys and said loudly, "Dean. Dean, we're here."

Dean sluggishly lifted his head, squinting at the thick, heavy pain behind his eyes. Touching one hand to his temple, he swallowed the nausea that accompanied headaches of such intensity. He worked his mouth and tongue up and down, his mouth was sticky and parched with dryness.

"You okay?" a worry-tinged voice asked.

Sam. Casting a glance at his brother, Dean realized that Sam's fear was fully directed at him. A worried Sam_—crap!_ he thought. Dean nodded, but inside he was anything but okay. There'd be questions, questions he couldn't answer, at least not yet. Before he had the chance to reach for the door handle, Sam appeared on the other side of the Impala, opening the door for him, waiting to help. Biting his lip, Dean swung first one leg out and then the other, moving with careful precision.

Cradling his ribs, he stood with a muffled grunt and waved Sam off, letting him know he could walk under his own power. But, _damn_, if he didn't sway with the first step—his body betraying his unsteadiness and bringing Sam to his side in a flash. Anger washed through him and threatened to spill over, the emotion more intense then he could reason out. Dean had to concentrate on keeping the lid tight lest he say something he might regret later.

Once inside, he removed his jacket, throwing it over a chair. Then Dean made a bee-line to his bed, snagging the percocets off the table and downing a couple with the Gatorade that set largely untouched where he'd left it earlier. Lying down on the bed, he threw one arm over his eyes to block out the light and let the other fall across his stomach. A swishing of material and a squeak from Sam's bed told him that his brother was preparing, no doubt, to start the inquiry.

"Dean. We need to talk."

"About what?"

He could practically hear Sam's incredulous grimace, teeth grinding in carefully controlled temper. The disgruntled way he sighed through his frustration in an attempt to keep his cool was loud and clear.

"About me finding you passed out in that poor woman's bathroom. About how you acted like the hounds of hell were busting down the door when you came to."

Dean didn't know what to say, couldn't really explain what had happened in there. Sam must've taken his silence as a refusal to answer because his next words left no doubt he was pissed.

"Damn it, Dean, you can't keep shutting me out. I know something is going on and we're gonna talk about it whether you want to or not."

A beat of time passed during which Dean could hear his brother hard-swallowing.

Sam's voice quavered when he finally said, "Man, I'm your brother, let me help. Please, Dean…please. Don't do this. You're all I've got and you're scaring the shit out of me."

Oh, how that did a number on his heart making it constrict and lurch. He couldn't not respond—he had to make it better, instinct to ease Sammy's pain strong.

"Sam…"

It came out as a harsh rasp against his throat, but it let Sam know he was listening and a response was coming. Sam folded his hands into his lap and waited for Dean to continue.

Dropping his arm, Dean stared at the ceiling as he spoke, unable to look his brother directly in the eye.

"I get that you're worried, okay? I do, I get it, but the truth is…I don't know what's going on. I just don't _know_."

Sam could accept that. Nodding, he licked his lips then asked, "What happened in there, Dean?"

Dean sat up, propped his elbows on his knees and used his fingers to massage his temples. The headache continued to build; the pressure on the backs of his eyeballs becoming unbelievable. He tried to ignore it, to wait for the pain relievers to kick in.

"I…I thought I saw something. You know, just out of the corner of my eye—a shadow. And, I thought…th-thought I s-saw…_ah_!"

The pain sliced through his brain, making his vision swim black as he doubled forward, clenching his head between his hands. _If you tell Sam, he dies._

"Dean! What is it!?"

Sam knelt in front of his brother, bracing Dean's shoulders with both hands.

"M-my head," he gasped.

_If you love your brother, you'll keep your mouth shut, Winchester. _

"Did you hear that?!" Dean asked. "_Ah_!"

The blinding agony intensified and Dean slipped from the bed—falling to his knees—Sam's fingers still wadded up in the material of his shirt. Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's shoulder, mimicking the double hold of his brother. The other hand remained at his temple.

"Hear what? Dean, what are you talking about?"

_Tell him nothing,_ the voice whispered again.

"N-nothing, thought…I…heard something…" he managed to force between his clenched teeth.

Automatically, the pain receded to a manageable level and Dean dropped both hands to his thighs, leaning there while he caught his breath. _What the— _he thought. Sam tugged on his shirt, his fear-filled face searching Dean's.

"Dean?"

"S'okay…I'm okay."

"No, you're _not_ okay. What the hell, Dean?!"

Sam's voice demanded truth, hard and angry. A side of his brother he'd been seeing more and more of lately. But Dean's mantra, protect Sam, played staccato in his head. He couldn't get Sam involved in this.

"Sam, _please_," he begged, "can we do this later? Got a bitch of a headache. Need to lie down—just for a minute."

Caught between his own heightened anxiety and the sound of Dean pleading, Sam opened his mouth to say something several times before he finally relented.

Patting Dean's shoulder and then helping him back to the bed, Sam consoled, "There_will_ be a later."

About to walk away, Sam noticed a dark stain blooming on Dean's shirt.

"Dean, you're bleeding."

Dean looked down at the quarter-sized circle of blood seeping through the white fabric of his dress shirt.

"It's nothing…"

But Sam had already grabbed the med kit and was pulling out fresh bandages.

"At least let me replace the gauze," he clipped.

Dean rolled his eyes, but eased himself out of the shirt—balling it up and tossing it to the floor. As suspected, some of the stitches had pulled free and fresh blood traced a slow, winding pattern down his skin.

"I really think these need to be re-stitched…"

The weary, tight look on Dean's face brought Sam's words to halt.

Rethinking what he'd been about to say, Sam revised, "But, I guess it can wait until later."

Wadding up an extra thick layer of gauze, Sam taped it tightly over the injury, hating the way Dean winced and pulled away.

Gathering the supplies back into the kit, he stood and said, "You rest, I'm gonna call Kelsey. I need to ask her a couple more questions."

Dean nodded, kicked off his shoes and _carefully_ shimmied out of his pants. Clad in nothing but his boxers and tee shirt, he lay facing Sam. His left arm was flung out under his pillow, the right one resting protectively against him.

Sam sank down to the edge of his bed and watched his brother pretend to relax until pretend became real and Dean slept. Scrubbing one hand through his hair and over his face, Sam tried to think. Headaches. Kelsey said her brother had suffered from migraines shortly before he died. Calling Information, Sam found Kelsey's number and then sat chewing his thumbnail while he waited for her to pick up.

oooOOOooo

_I'm asleep_, he thought, _this has to be a dream. One, I don't feel any pain. Two, what the __hell__ am I doing back here?_ Dean could feel the mist on his face, could feel the give of the wooden planks as he climbed each worn step. As he drew near the platform, he stiffened with dread. Fear, icy-cold, rippled through him. What would be waiting for him at the top?

Still, he climbed, compelled to find out who or what he would find when he got there. Ten more steps and Dean found himself standing in the middle of the platform—alone. A breeze ruffled his hair and the dense fog surrounding him changed into a spectacular view of stars and shadowy mountains. Occasional raindrops smacked the top of his head and forearms. He shivered against the chill in the air. Confused, he circled around, searching every hiding place, every shelter that might reveal what he'd been expecting to see. But, he found nothing. Dean shrugged and walked toward the familiar railing.

Grabbing onto the aged wood, he supported his weight with both arms and stared out into the distance. The _cold_ wind nipped his nose and ears. A motion below him caught his attention and he looked down. Hanging by a hand on a single board, Daniel kicked his legs frantically and silently screamed for help. Dean didn't hesitate; he dropped to his stomach and extended his arm as far as he could—begging Daniel to grab onto him.

"Tsk, tsk, Dean. Still trying to be the hero, eh?"

Throwing a look over his shoulder, Dean found Sam standing behind him—only _not_ Sam.

"You're not him," Dean gritted through his teeth and then turned back to Daniel.

"How many times are you gonna let that poor boy die, Dean?"

As the words left NotSam's mouth, Dean finally caught the terrified boy's wrist.

"Just hold on, I've gotcha!"

"Better hang onto him, Dean. You're gonna lose him," came the taunt.

Dean pushed out a little farther over the edge, trying to get a better position to pull Daniel up. To make matters worse, the rain picked up, turning into a steady downpour. He could feel the boy's wet wrist sliding from his hold.

"Daniel, hold still. I can't pull you up unless you hold still."

"He's not gonna make it, Dean. You never could hang on to anything."

_Not your mom, not Sam, not even Dad_ hung unsaid in the air between them.

Dean yelled, "Shut the hell up! I've got him!"

NotSam came over and squatted beside Dean, eyeing Daniel with a gleeful smile.

"Poor kid…never really stood a chance, did he?"

Dean didn't answer, too busy trying to keep his leverage. Grunts puffed out his cheeks as he worked hard to keep Daniel's hand in his. The veins in Dean's neck popped, his face went red with effort—the kid was slipping and he knew it. Sheer desperation kept him clinging to the boy. He couldn't let this monster in Sam's skin be right. He just couldn't.

"Of course, this isn't your first time, is it, Dean? This isn't the first innocent kid you've murdered."

This time NotSam's dark eyes bore into Dean, accusatory and condemning.

Refocusing on Daniel, Dean spat, "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Sure you do, Dean. You remember. How could you _ever_ forget?"

NotSam let that sink in, knowing his strike hit its target.

"What do you think Sam would do if he knew? How do you think he'd feel?"

"You _don't__know_ what you're talking about," Dean bellowed, spittle flying from his lips, "shut the hell up before _I_ shut you up!"

Rolling his eyes in mock impatience, NotSam, gestured toward Daniel still swinging below, only a fingertip away from doom.

"Better hang on to_ her_."

A warning began to slow-burn through Dean, murmurs of what he'd find, what he'd see. Blinking the sweat and water from his eyes, he allowed himself to turn his head and look down, but it was not Daniel hanging from his grasp. No, not Daniel, but a 20 year old girl. Her wet, dark hair swung in the wind and her large, doe-like eyes pled with him to save her. Her mouth made the same vast O of soundless screams just like Daniel's. Suddenly the grasp Dean had on her failed and she careened into the dark, eyes never leaving his, arms and legs waving wildly in the air.

"NOOOO!" Dean howled, his arm still reaching for the girl, "No, God, no!

He continued to scream until his words were lost to fits of ragged coughing. Every muscle bunched and became taut with the tremors that racked his body. Finally, he fell back against the rough floor—his will draining away from his body as the laughter of NotSam filled his ears.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Big hugs to all of you who reviewed last time and for all the encouraging thoughts. Thanks to YOU, I have worked double-time to get this chapter out to ya. Thanks to Heather for showing me how to defy and its twitchy ways. I love reading your reviews…I can't say it enough…thanks. 

To all who are still reading, big thanks to you, I hope you continue to read and enjoy.

Extra cookie to my betas, Mady for taking time to do this one quickly before her trip, and to Tidia for reading it over and over…and over. I'm a better writer because of the two of you.


	6. Chapter 6: Holding it Together

Chapter 6: Holding It Together

Dean slammed his eyelids shut against the laughter of NotSam echoing in his ears—his grief at having lost the girl made complete with this evil version of his brother staring down and mocking his failure. Would this is what it would be like if he couldn't find a way to save Sam.

_Don't be scared, Dean…You have to save Sam…if you can't, you'll have to kill him. _

_Don't let go, Dean. I don't want to die. _

Panic bloomed within, blocking reason and resolve and he gasped for air—his eyes widened as his struggle for breath went unmet. Blackness, thick and heavy, weighed on him, pressed in until the need for air burned his lungs, slipped down his throat and filled him with hopeless futility.

Hands clamped down on his shoulders and shook him hard. Dean did his best to twist out of them, to get away, but his captor had a strong, sure hold. All he could think to do was fight. Frantically, he jerked an arm free and jabbed his fist into something solid, momentarily causing the hands to falter. Before he could move away, though, the hands were back…and with them, a voice.

"Dean! STOP!" the voice shouted, equal parts pain and fear.

The hands shook and squeezed hard, pinching flesh and leaving marks as the voice continued, this time pleading.

"Please, wake up. Please."

Sammy. Not the _other_ Sam, but _his_ Sam. Struggling against the chains of the nightmare, he forced his way back to his brother. Eyes flew open and he drew in a deep, whooshing lung-full of air. Looking up, his vision filled with the sight of a pale, frantic Sam. A Sam who still clung to his brother with a death grip. A Sam with a bruised and bleeding lip. He was going to tear apart whoever had hurt his brother.

"Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?!" Sam shouted, emotion fueling heat into his words.

Dean trembled beneath Sam's touch, but at least the foreign, wild look on his face was gone and he seemed focused.

Dean reached up and touched Sam's lip.

"Who did this to you?"

"It's fine, Dean. Are _you_ okay?"

"Sam," he growled, "who _did_ this."

Huffing, Sam released his hold on his brother, grabbed the med kit and hooked a hip on Dean's bedside. He wiped the blood from his mouth before answering.

"You did, Dean."

"What!? No way."

Dean started to shake his head, but even as he did, the memory of his knuckles colliding with something solid accused him.

"Yes, Dean, you did. Even with these injuries, you were getting in some good shots. Hell, you were fighting me off like your life depended on it."

Lifting one shoulder, Dean said, "Well, I'm sore, not dead."

Examining his brother's shoulder, Sam continued, "You've torn out the rest of your stitches. I'm gonna have to sew it back up—no arguments this time."

Dean didn't respond, didn't say a word, even let Sam help him ease his shirt over his head—but when Sam wasn't looking, he couldn't help finding his eyes drawn to the already purpling mark on his brother's mouth. As Sam cleaned the fresh blood from his wound, Dean listened to him continue talking in a rapid, hushed tone.

"Dean, what the hell were you dreaming about? You stopped _breathing_, man…scared the crap outta me."

When Sam paused long enough to meet his brother's stare, Dean's gaze immediately dropped to his fists clutching the bed covers. His face shuttered with a deep frown. Finally, Sam returned his attention to his work. Wincing as the needle pushed through his flesh, Dean chose to focus on that rather than Sam's worried face.

"Did you hear me? You _stopped breathing_. What kind of nightmare does that?"

Dean shook his head, but stayed quiet.

"Dean, look at me. Look at me," he commanded when his brother sat complacent.

Sam waited a beat, afraid his brother would stay stubborn. After several seconds, Dean lifted his eyes to meet his. This time _Sam_ lost his breath. Within hazel-green depths was a lifetime of weary sorrow, and beyond that…soul-crushing guilt.

Pressing his lips together, Sam weighed his words carefully. Where was this guilt coming from? Was it Daniel? Or was it something else entirely? He decided to focus on what he _could_ help with.

"I'm worried about you, man. You're a mess. You've been having nightmares, bad ones—migraines—and we haven't even gotten into what happened in Kelsey Lander's bathroom. Something is wrong and I need you to talk to me. Please."

Dean's mouth grew tight. Sam could see the walls come up. He imagined he could hear the boom of finality in it.

"I can't."

"You can't or you won't?" Sam demanded, his voice brittle and hard.

Face rigid, chin defiant, Dean shot back, "Does it matter?"

A long space of time followed the comment. Sam's jaw muscles flexed and worked beneath his skin, his eyes shooting cold daggers. Then he swung his gaze around the room, lips pursed as he bit down on the words bubbling within. Slamming the med kit shut with a definite snap, he set it aside and stood. As soon as he did, Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, feet planting firmly on the carpeted floor as he waited for the room to slow its spinning.

"So, what, Dean…we just pretend nothin's going on?"

Sam stood with his back to Dean, then turned, hands resting on his hips, not willing to let it go. Dean ran a hand over his face, through his hair and let it rest at his neck. Sighing, he shook his head.

"Look, we've just gotta find out what's causing these suicides and kill it. That's it. Everything will be okay then."

Sam blurted, "And what if this gets you first? Huh? What then, Dean?"

Dean looked at Sam, his face set in granite.

"It won't."

Eyebrows high, Sam whispered, "You don't _know_ that."

"And you don't even know if it's the same thing, Sam!" Dean shouted, not bothering to deny the implications of accepting Sam's conjecture. "I'll be okay; we just need to finish this."

All kinds of alarms tripped within Sam. What happened to 'I'm fine, Sam'? Frustrated, Sam dropped to his bed, scrubbing his face. After the motion stilled, he continued to hide his face behind his hands. Taking deep breaths, he tried to keep his head. Dean could be so stubborn. Especially when he thought he was protecting him. Whatever was going on, Dean was definitely hiding something…was protecting him from something. Maybe both. But how to get the truth out of him?

Dropping his hands, Sam took a long look at his brother. He looked tired, no, not tired,_ exhausted_. Deep shadows haunted Dean's eyes and his face looked drawn. Shoulders were slumped and his head hung low. His demeanor was of a man barely keeping himself together. It was scary seeing his rock-solid brother like this, but not unexpected. Dean had been flirting with disaster for months.

Clasping his hands between his knees, Sam leaned forward. "Dean, just…just promise me you'll let me know if it gets too much, okay?"

"Sure Sammy, you know I will."

Rolling his eyes, Sam scoffed. "I mean it, Dean."

"Yeah, _okay, _Sam."

His brother's tension rippled into Dean, making it difficult to keep up the charade, but somehow he did. Peering from under his lids, Dean asked, "So, did you call the Landers woman?"

Blowing out a breath, Sam rubbed his eyes, wishing he could believe Dean. But he didn't want to fight, either. Nodding, he allowed the change in topic and sat back, nervously tapping his foot up and down.

"Yeah, I did. She gave me some of the other victims' relatives' phone numbers and I made a few calls."

"And?"

"_And_, I gotta tell ya, Dean, this sounds like a demon to me. The placement, timing and method of death have been as varied as the victims themselves have. Kinda rules out your typical haunting."

"The victims have nothing in common? Connection to a particular place, recent loss of loved ones…nothing?"

"The only thing they have in common is that they're all men and they shared common symptoms—migraines, delusions, voices that no one else can hear and night terrors. Some, like Daniel, had recently suffered a loss of some kind, but not all of them…at least that I could find. Just like I told you this morning."

"Succubus?" Dean offered as he stood to dress.

"No, there have been no reported sexual attacks. I don't know, it's weird. Why would a demon want these people to commit suicide, though? Why not just possess them or kill them outright?"

Dean shrugged, then finished buttoning his jeans. Then he sat on the edge of his bed saying, "Maybe it's getting its jollies watching them suffer? Maybe it can't possess them, only push their buttons."

Sam shrugged, then mused, "Some cultures believe in nightmare demons…not necessarily succubae, but demons that visit people's dreams, make them go insane without ever actually becoming corporeal."

"Find anything online about these nightmare demons?"

"Uh, let me check."

Sam moved to his laptop and with a tap, tap, tap he typed in the information and waited for the pages to load. Watching Sam's face wrinkle with concentration, the lines between his brows making grooves, Dean sighed—resisting the urge to massage his temples. The headache was ever-present now, not as severe as before, but a dull, constant, annoying ache.

But this was the least of his worries. He could hardly look at his brother without feeling a sharp pang of remorse. That was twice he'd struck Sam in the last year. What kind of brother was he? Hadn't Sam suffered enough because of him? And, if Sam knew about the girl, if he knew what Dean'd done...

How could he expect Sam to understand when he still hadn't forgiven himself? He'd never be absolved of the blame, no matter how much good he did. If Sam knew, he'd leave. He couldn't risk telling him. His guilt would be his to carry alone, not need bringing Sam into it. That made it all so much worse because he wanted to tell Sam, he really did. He owed him that much. He needed him to know, needed his brother's forgiveness.

The ache in Dean's head sharpened and he had to fight to keep the gasp from becoming audible. Glancing Sam's way, he was relieved to find his brother engrossed in research. Despite himself, a part of Dean desperately wanted Sam to look and see him. Ever since their dad's death, a black hole filled the spot where his heart should have been, gaping and spacious. But with Daniel's death, it had taken on a life of its own, growing exponentially with each passing day, the ache of it growing impossible to ignore.

The darkness threatened to suck him in and snuff out all the light, all the good, until it left nothing behind. He was a giant walking wound, all that bled on the inside turned inside out to the world. It was staggering in its intensity. Of course, he'd kept it hidden, buried away from the scrutiny of his brother. Even though done by design, Dean desperately wanted Sam to see, to help him, to save _him_. It was killing him, making him a living ghost and he needed someone to keep him real. Why couldn't Sam hear him screaming for help? Couldn't he see how badly Dean needed him? It took all his strength to keep it from bleeding through the cracks.

God, he was tired. So tired. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to pretend. The internal pain matched the physical pain blow for blow. Escape, he wanted—needed—escape. His eyes skittered over to the pills sitting on the nightstand…it wouldn't hurt to take a few more. Maybe it would help silence the storm on the inside along with the agony on the outside.

Twisting off the cap, he popped two pills in his mouth and reached for the flask to drown the dry tablets. It probably wasn't the best idea, but at this point it didn't seem to matter much. Anything that would quiet the whispering in his mind would be worth it. Anything to dull the pain.

He slugged back a few mouthfuls and felt grateful for the warmth that rushed through his body. He was cold. Cold on the inside, cold on the outside. He shivered, but he didn't know if it was a physical response or a mental one. Man, his shoulder hurt—his shoulder, ribs, head—all blaring their agony on a megaphone.

He must've made an involuntary sound because instantly Sam's gaze was on him. Blue-green probed, pierced and begged.

_Oh, Sammy, please…please, man, I can't do this now. Just go back to your research, don't look at me…yes, please, look at me. Help me, I'm drowning, man. That's it, nothing to see here. I'm fine._

Then the connection was gone. Dean's outer barrier stood carefully erect, wobbly, but strong enough to deflect. Strong enough to hide what lay behind.

Spent, Dean rested against the headboard. Letting his head fall back with a slight bang, he closed his eyes and sighed through his nose. His arms wrapped around his sides and he pulled his right knee up.

Dean touched his fingertips to his forehead.

"Dean?"

One word, that was it…but it spoke volumes.

Without looking, Dean misdirected. "Find anything yet?"

A swallow. Rapid blinking and another huff of air. Dean didn't have to have super-senses to know they were all there. Sam played like music in his head, every nuance; every note came through loud and clear. He'd never known anyone better or more thoroughly than he did his brother.

"Not much. There doesn't seem to be any detailed history concerning nightmare demons. 'Mare' in the word nightmare actually comes for the Old Norse term "mara" which refers to a demon who sits on a sleeper's chest, causing them to have bad dreams. " Sam paused thoughtfully. "But there is no mention of suicide here."

Waving a hand in the air, Dean asked, "If you're so sure it's a demon, why don't we just exorcise it? Just send the damn thing back to hell already?"

"Because, Dean, you know as well as I do that we need to cover all our bases. Dad always said the first rule of a successful hunt was—"

"Yeah, yeah—know what you're dealing with first."

Sam gave him an apologetic shrug.

"So, smart one, what now?"

"Now, we eat. I can't think over the sounds my stomach is making. What sounds good?"

"You pick, Sam. I'm not really hungry."

"Think you could handle some soup?"

"I'm guessing you're not gonna let this go, right?"

"Soup it is."

Sam got up and reached for his jacket, snagging the keys from the pocket and completely ignoring the disgusted head-shaking coming from his brother. "You gonna be alright alone?"

"Dude, I'm 28. I think I'll manage."

Sam hesitated, then said, "Well, okay. But, just in case, my phone is on if you need anything."

"Gee, thanks, _Mom_."

Dean held the smirk firmly in place until he heard the Impala roar to life, then he let it fall away like the heavy burden it was. Grabbing the remote and the whiskey, he began cruising channels as he smothered his misery with strong drink.

Somewhere between Pet Cemetery and Tommyknockers (yes, it was a Stephen King movie marathon), he must have dozed. He remembered the credits rolling across the TV screen and then…he wasn't sure. The only thing he could be sure about was something had startled him awake and he had that funny feeling that made his skin crawl—something was watching him. Maybe it was just the drugs and alcohol, he had a nice warm buzz going on and really just wanted to turn over and go back to sleep.

Rolling over, he suddenly found himself face to face with the girl from his dreams, sightless eyes staring into his. Jerking backwards, he tumbled off the bed and scampered toward his bag. He grabbed the sawed off shotgun and blasted the image away. Panting, his back against the wall, he searched the room frantically.

"Now, why would you do that, Dean?" came a whisper next to his ear.

The icy breath chilled his skin and he flinched away, bringing the gun up between them.

"I just want to talk," she began before Dean interrupted her.

"Well, I don't," Dean spat as he squeezed the trigger again.

Before he had time to reload, the figure reappeared just to his left, ripping the gun from his hands and sending it clattering against the far wall.

Eyes wide and hands empty, Dean choked, "How…"

"Never mind how…"

In a flash, she was straddling him, her hands gripping his throat and cutting off his air. Everywhere her body made contact with his, he could feel a cold burn stinging his skin. Wrapping his fingers around her wrists, he tried to pry them away, but she was strong and the pain lancing through his fingers was too great. Letting go of her wrists, he grabbed her upper arms and pulled her toward him, head butting her once, twice. The move left them both dazed, but at least she'd let go. Rolling onto his good side and over his shoulder, Dean pushed himself into a defensive standing posture—arms held out in front of him and knees bent in anticipation of attack.

"What do you want from me?"

Her eyes glowed and blood dripped from her mouth as she growled, "Your _soul_."

Then she was on him, her hands reaching through his flesh and searing a path everywhere she touched. It was a sickening feeling that made his stomach roll. She grasped his head between her hands and pushed. As the pain ripped through his body and mind, he pulled at her arms, felt himself growing weaker, like she was draining him.

"NO!" he screamed, hands weakly pushing her away.

"Oh, yes, Dean. You are mine. You. Are. Mine."

"Hannah, please, stop. My brother needs me."

"Yeah? Like he needed you last time? Like I needed you?"

"I'm sorry. Please…" he groaned.

"Please, what? Please, let you live? Please, put you out of your misery? Which is it, Dean?"

"Sam…needs…me…"

"No. I don't think he does. I think it's _you_ who needs _him_. Sam can take care of himself and you're just an obstacle in his path."

"No…" Dean gasped, his vision blurring.

He struggled to stay conscious, but his head spun dizzily and he could no longer bite back the cries held in his throat. Looking around for anything to defend himself with, he spotted the hilt of his knife hanging over the edge of his bag. Releasing his hold on one of her arms, he stretched and reached with his free hand, trying to knock the weapon within reach. Finally, he gained a good grip and swiped the weapon down in an arcing motion into a surprised Hannah.

Vanishing mist was all that remained and the weapon fell to the floor next to Dean's hip. He let his head fall back to the floor and heaved great swallows of air, looking like a gaping fish. Grasping the knife, Dean pulled himself back onto the bed, sweat pouring down the sides of his face and his back. He didn't want Sammy finding him on the floor like that. Secure in the bed, he let the blackness claim him.

He didn't hear the Impala pull up outside or the key in the lock. He didn't see Sam come in or the way his little brother's eyes immediately locked onto him, checking to make sure he was still there. When Sam nearly tripped over the shotgun still resting by the door, he didn't hear the curse or the crinkling of sacks being flung on a nearby table as Sam rushed to his side calling his name.

What he did hear was Sam's continued curses at the deep bruising around Dean's neck. Waking up to gentle slaps on his cheeks and Sammy's voice beckoning him, Dean floated and hovered just two steps from either direction of awareness.

"Dean, wake up."

He tried to bring Sam's face into focus, the colors and shapes becoming clearer.

"What happened? You okay?"

"Sam?" he croaked, noticing the rawness of his throat.

"Yeah. Man, what happened? Why's the shotgun in the floor? And where'd these bruises come from?"

"Uh, yeah, about that. Had a little visitor while you were gone."

"A visi—Dean, what're you talking about? Who did this?" Sam gestured at Dean's neck.

Not looking Sam in the eye, he said, "I think it was a spirit of some sort…"

"You _think_? What does that mean?"

Still disoriented, Dean felt a flare of annoyance at Sam's third degree.

"I don't know…just a little more than our normal spook."

"Yeah, I'd have to agree," Sam started, reaching out to touch the welts circling Dean's neck.

Dean batted Sam's hands away and proceeded to turn onto his side, intent on going back to sleep. Whatever she'd done to him had left him drained.

"You're going back to sleep? Now?" Getting a grunt and a nod from his brother, Sam said, "Dean, I need to know what happened here."

"Later, Sammy. I'm really tired, man."

Pushing back on Dean's shoulder, Sam replied, "Not until you tell me what happened."

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Ah, man. Give me a break, Sam…I need to sleep."

"And if that thing comes back? Don't you think it would be helpful for me to know what we're up against?

That did the trick. Sam needed to know so he could be prepared…just in case. So while Sam fussed over him, Dean told his brother everything there was to tell. Everything except the fact that he knew the girl. That he kept to himself. By the time he'd finished relating the details, he'd fought through the worst part of the grogginess and was slumped against the headboard, nearly recovered enough to sit all the way up. Whatever she'd done to him, it wore off if given some time.

"Here."

Sam held out the white foam container of soup he'd picked up for Dean. However, when Dean looked up to take the offered food, he saw Hannah standing where Sam should've been. Yelping loudly, he dropped the bowl just as Sam let go and spilled the hot liquid all over his chest and thighs, hissing as it scalded the flesh pink.

"Son of a _bitch_!" he cried out.

"Oh, damn!" chorused Sam.

Sprinting to the bathroom, Sam came back with couple of towels and wetted washcloths.

"I'm so sorry, Dean! I thought you had it, man," he apologized as he dabbed at his brother's shirt and jeans. "Here, take off your clothes."

Sam snatched fresh laundry from Dean's bag and came back to clean up the mess on the floor. Looking up just as Dean lifted his t-shirt over his head, he gasped at the discolored flesh across Dean's chest and abdomen. Dark, red welts blistered his brother's flesh like burn marks.

"God, Dean! It did that?!"

Untangling himself from the cloth, Dean looked down at himself, wincing as his eyes fell on the painful marks.

"Well, hell," was all he could muster up.

Splaying his fingers across the tingling skin, he examined the stripes, poking at them to test the pain quota. What the hell was going on? He couldn't help wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.

"I don't think the soup did that, Dean. It wasn't that hot."

"Says you," Dean grumbled.

Sam's brows had climbed up to his hairline as he peered closely at the marks.

"Look," Sam continued, "it's almost like a bruise around the edges…and there's a faint outline of fingers here and here," he said, pointing to a couple of spots on Dean's ribs and breastbone.

Shrugging, Dean batted Sam's hand away again, saying, "Musta been the ghost."

"But, what kind of ghost does that?"

"_Exactly_, little brother."

"I'm on it," Sam said, parking himself in front of his laptop with his food. "Whatever it is, I'm gonna find it and we're gonna kill it."

Dean smirked at his brother's resolve. Sam, the eternal optimist—with plenty of stubborn thrown in. He could count on Sam to always have his back.

TBC

* * *

A/N: I really feel I could've done a better job on this, but honestly, I'm tired of worrying about it…or, maybe I'm just tired, lol. Either way, I trust you all enough to throw it out there into your capable hands…or minds if we want to be literal. 

Many thanks again to all those who reviewed…I think I replied to everyone except the anonymous ones (and thank you as well). You all are very generous with your kindness to me. I hope I can make it worth your while.

And, even if you don't send me a review, thank you for reading this tangled web of words.

I just can't say this enough, big thanks and kudos to Tidia and Mady for beta'ing this for me despite your own busy lives and complications. I've been quite the mess and I'm glad you had my back.


	7. Chapter 7: Coming Undone

**A/N#1: Don't get too excited, it's not as long as it looks, but I have a special thank you "gift" for everyone at the end. Kinda goes along with this chapter and is a **_**small part**_** of the reason I'm so late.**

* * *

Chapter 7: Coming Undone

Pulling a clean, dry shirt over his head with careful movements, Dean winced as his stretching tugged at his injuries. He'd already shucked and replaced the soupy jeans while Sam researched. Looking down at his shaking fingers, Dean clasped them together – stilling the telltale give away – and then braced them on his thighs. His skin still stung. It reminded him of the time he'd brushed against a stinging poisonous weed while on a hunt – only this was worse. These welts were large and felt like lashes from a whip mixed with the burn of a branding iron. Just one more thing on top of a mountain of things. He wondered if the other shoe had dropped yet.

Watching Sam reading intently, he asked "Find anything?"

Sam lifted one finger and flicked his eyes quickly to his brother and back again. Dean huffed a sigh, drew his hand over his head and across his neck. He wasn't good at being patient, especially now. He'd never voice his fears aloud, but he was spooked. This hunt was turning out to be a little too personal, a little too out of control – and nothing scared Dean more than that feeling. He desperately needed Sam to find something – anything – that would put the ball back in his court. He just needed a target. He needed an objective to pursue. Something to take his mind off _Hannah_.

Hannah. He hadn't thought about her since the Bloody Mary job. He thought he'd buried her memory away where it wouldn't be able to touch him or Sam. It didn't make sense…ghosts usually remained tied to places of death or loved ones. And, why now, after all these years? What did she want from him? Revenge, maybe? He really should tell Sam…it might be important, but was it worth the risk? So many times he'd wished he could get that weight off his shoulders. But it wouldn't be fair to burden Sam with the knowledge.

Hearing Dean sigh for the umpteenth time, Sam tore his concentration away from the laptop. His brother was sitting on the bed, face drawn and pale with his eyes cast down. To anyone else, he'd have appeared to be merely lost in thought, unaffected and unconcerned. Only Sam knew better. Dean looked…_drained_…maybe even _burdened_. His shoulders hung low and his eyes were haunted with shadows within and without. It reminded Sam of Nebraska and Layla. He couldn't shake the feeling that his brother was hiding something important from him, something more than the usual stuff.

He wanted to ask, but he didn't want to argue. Dean looked like a glass house and Sam sure as hell wasn't going to be the one throwing stones. Times like this, he wished his psychic abilities would make themselves useful and allow him to see what was going on inside of Dean. What would he see there if he could? Would he be able to handle the darkness inside of his brother? Would he be swallowed by the grief he knew Dean must surely carry around? Was Dean really able to throw the switch and forget the pain, both physical and mental, or was there a deep well of misery climbing the walls inside of him?

Sam knew there was so much more to it than the simple, flippant responses Dean threw at him. He'd spent day and night, hour after hour with this man and he'd glimpsed the softer inner core his brother hid from world. The part of Dean that felt each death they couldn't stop, missed their father, wished for their mother and needed Sam to be safe and happy.

Shaking his head, Sam almost laughed at his own maudlin thoughts…maybe he really was the red-headed chick of their partnership. He could practically hear Dean calling him a girl. But his brother was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice Sam's smirk. Sam couldn't hide the tendrils of concern wrapping the single word as he spoke.

"Dean?"

A flash of green and then, "Yeah, Sam, I'm fine. What did you find?"

Sam hesitated, then said, "This whole time we've been looking for a common link between the victims or for some kind of creature that specializes in suicides. What if the only commonality is their gender? And the suicides are just the end result of relentless torture? I mean, maybe there have been other deaths caused by this thing that weren't suicides."

Eyes alive with excitement, Sam continued, "I think this is it." He gestured at the screen. "It's the only thing that makes any sense. It's called a Culpa-Moh, a kind of shadow demon, and it feeds off of guilt and works by infecting the victim's mind. They don't possess people, rather they drive them mad through a systematic routine of torture…and they target only men. And, it says here that they can take things from victim's minds and make them real."

Dean looked to Sam, confusion etching his face.

"What do you mean 'real'?"

"I mean," Sam began and then looked at Dean pointedly, "corporeal, real as real can be. Like the ghost you saw."

"Okay, okay. So, I guess that makes me the next victim then," Dean finally conceded. "But, Sam, I'm not suicidal."

"Not yet. Look at you, man. How much more of this do you think you can take?"

"As much as necessary," Dean clipped. Hoping Sam would leave it at that, he continued, "Why have we never heard of them before? They're not in Dad's journal."

"Well, probably because they're rare and once they've gorged themselves on enough souls, they can go almost 30 years before they need to feed again. While dormant, they just cause general chaos, not causing any deaths until they're ready to go through another growth spurt. That's when they feed. Eventually, once they've reached a certain point, they divide into two separate creatures and begin the process over again."

"And, their powers grow as they grow?"

"Supposedly."

"Any way of knowing how far along our Culpa-whatever might be?"

"No, not really. I'd say that judging by the number of people who've already died; this demon is probably pretty close to adulthood."

"Let's just exorcise its ass."

"Dean, it doesn't work that way. It's not really possessing anyone."

Dean rubbed his eyes. They burned and ached and he could feel the pressure building behind them.

"So how do we kill it? Everything has a weakness, a way to be killed or banished."

"I'm working on that. Since these things are uncommon, there's not much out there about them. If you hadn't gotten those burn marks, I'd still be looking. That's one of their unique calling cards…not too many creatures out there leave marks like that."

"Yea, me," Dean scoffed.

Resisting the urge to touch his temples, he began to unconsciously run his palms up and down his legs, letting the motion and feel of the denim beneath his fingers sooth his nerves.

After a few seconds of silent watching, Sam finally suggested, "Why don't you give Bobby call. Maybe he'll know more than we do."

"Yeah, okay," Dean said as he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

Sam continued to watch from his peripheral vision as he typed in new search criteria. He hoped his suggestion would kill two birds with one stone. One, it would give Dean something to do and, two, Bobby very likely might be able to help them.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Dean. Oh, yeah, I'm fine…we're fine. Listen, we need a favor. What do you know about Culpa-uh…?"

"Culpa-Moh," Sam supplied.

"…Culpa-Moh."

Dean gave Sam a grateful look, then went back to listening.

"Yeah, Sam found some basics, but we need how to kill them. Okay, yeah sure. Hey…thanks, Bobby. Will do."

Clicking the phone off, Dean slumped again.

"Said he'd have to get back to us. Something about the books needing some dusting off first."

Dean slumped back on the bed, feet still planted on the floor. A great weight pressed him into the mattress, settling heavy in his chest, and he wondered if someone had turned up the gravity. Closing his eyes, he fought against the hopeless feeling that had settled into his bones. This wasn't right, this wasn't him – God knows he'd had enough reason throughout his lifetime to feel hopeless, but somehow he'd always managed to pull it together. Was this what the demon was doing to him, stripping him of all his defenses?

He could feel Sam's eyes on him, but he didn't dare return the look. Sam might see something within leaking through. If all he could manage was to spare Sam that much, then he would. Instead, he concentrated on relaxing his body – starting with his toes and working upward. By the time he got to his shoulders, he at least looked the part he was playing. And, that was good. He at least needed to feel like he wasn't letting Sam down. In the end, that's all that really mattered.

Then, the bed dipped and he felt his brother settle beside him, mimicking his pose. When he was little, Sam used to follow Dean around everywhere, copying his every move. For an entire summer this had gone on, driving their Dad crazy with the whole routine. It had been as annoying as hell for Dean, too, until the he figured out it was a sure-fire way of getting little Sammy to take a nap. His lips lifted into a gentle smile at the memory. When had things gotten so complicated? he wondered.

"Nap time already?" Dean teased.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, you probably don't remember that."

"Remember what, Dean?"

Now Sam was raised on one elbow, curiously peering down at his brother, praying he'd continue the thought, share the memory.

"The summer after you'd turned five." Dean let the smile warm his voice. "You got it in your head to be just like me…not that anyone could blame you, having such a cool older brother and all."

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't interrupt.

"You were stuck to my side like glue…went everywhere I went, did everything I did. I swear, Sammy, if I'd danced naked on the top of the car in the middle of a hailstorm, you'd have done it, too. Your knees stayed scraped and bruised because you insisted on clomping around in my shoes and were always tripping over your own feet. I got so sick of your mug being in my face all the time…not to mention the way you butchered all my best one-liners."

"Dude, you were nine, what kind of one-liners could you possibly have had?"

Looking up at Sam, Dean winked.

"Are you kiddin' me? I was born smooth. Anyway, it was pretty damn irritating. Even started to get on Dad's nerves after a while."

Dean stopped and the smile dropped away from his face. Sam nudged Dean's arm.

"And?"

"And, what?"

Not liking the confused look muddling Dean's face and blanking his eyes, Sam had to tamp down his urge to ask if his brother was okay. Instead, he decided to prod Dean into finishing the memory.

"Well, what happened? Did I just outgrow it or something?"

Dean turned his head a fraction and glanced at his brother, then back up to the ceiling.

Clearing his throat and taking a breath, Dean continued, "No. Like I said, you watched everything I did, even when I didn't realize it. I guess you must've been getting up after I'd been sending you to bed at night and watching me clean Dad's guns and stuff. But, we had run out of milk and I left you asleep to run over to a gas station behind the motel…wasn't gone maybe…," Dean pursed his lips, thinking, "…eight, ten minutes max."

"When I came back, I must've startled you. Damn near blew my head off. When Dad found out, man, he was pissed – tanned my hide and then yours. Me, for leaving the guns unattended and you for playing with them. And, he told you right then and there no more copying. Said you were too little to do the same things I did. Made you promise you wouldn't do it anymore."

Dean fell silent, his fingers plucking at his shirt's hem. Sam sighed and lay back down, his eyes blinking and shifting as he digested the information.

After a while, Sam softly asked, "What made you remember that, Dean?"

Beside him, his brother chuckled then answered, "Well, being the wise older brother that I am, it didn't take me too long to figure out how to use it against you. For a while there, if I wanted you to take a nap all I had to do was go lay down on the bed and lie real still. I told you it was a secret warrior concentration technique. It never took you more than a few minutes before you'd be sawing logs."

Sam scoffed, but held his tongue. He wondered if it would work for him with Dean just now. His brother was exhausted – there was no hiding it. Everything that had happened was taking its toll in obvious ways Dean couldn't hide from him. Maybe if he held still, soaked in the moment, his brother's trick could work for him. Even if it didn't, he had to admit that sharing this moment with Dean felt intimate. Intimate in a way they rarely had the time or the inclination for. It wouldn't hurt to indulge.

Being this close to Dean, this quiet next to him, brought back memories of their youth before life complicated things and made them grow up and apart. He'd never say so aloud, but he silently lived for these rare treasures of time spent with his brother. Little jewels he could tuck away and save for rainy days.

For just a little while longer, he could bask in Dean's Dean-ness. In the safety of it. No other person on earth had the ability to make Sam feel so loved and protected, so…home. For a second, he was able to forget their troubles at hand and just be content. All too soon, like a child's bubble blown into the wind, the universe popped and the escape was lost.

Suddenly, Sam felt his brother sit up, stiffly on the edge of the bed, like someone somewhere had flipped a switch. Staring up at Dean, he watched to see what he would do, but his brother just sat motionless for the longest time. Regretfully, Sam rose and turned his head toward Dean.

"What?" he asked simply.

That's when he noticed the trembling of Dean's hands and the quick breaths building in his brother's chest. Fear electrified Sam's nerve endings, setting his teeth on edge.

"Dean? What is it?" he asked again.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean's head pivoted toward Sam. The whites of Dean's eyes spoke volumes until the words and lips synchronized to force a single thought between bared lips.

"Run, Sam."

Confused, Sam echoed the wide-eyed look, just beginning to shake his head when Dean's voice came more forcefully.

"Sam, I can't…RUN!"

Struck mute and paralyzed to the spot, Sam watched as Dean's normally hazel-green eyes took on an unnatural glow and his brother's features transformed into a feral grin.

_Too late. I'm too late_, Sam thought.

It was the last rational thought he had before his brother stood over him, lifting him by his lapels and flinging him across the room with super-human strength. His spine made contact with the paneled wall first, followed closely by his head. Then, sliding down and away from the wall, he crashed onto the unforgiving floor; his head ringing like a bell long after the impact was made. Quickly scooting away from Dean and toward his bag of weapons, Sam managed to loop a single finger through the trigger of his salt-loaded shotgun before he lost the contact and was dragged helplessly away by his legs.

"Tsk, tsk. No cheating, Sammy. This fight's all mano a mano."

The voice behind him was both hard and cruel and though sometimes Dean could be hard, he was never cruel.

Flipping over, Sam reared back and kicked Dean in the stomach – knocking the air out of his brother with a whoosh. His long legs were decidedly an advantage in nearly every circumstance. Scrambling now, Sam lunged toward the bag only so many inches and feet away, but an eternity for all that it mattered because Dean might be shorter, but that only made him quicker. Sam had only begun to make headway when he felt his brother's strong, powerful hands grip his shirtfront and jerk him upward.

A loud crack sounded in his ears as Dean's fist collided with the soft tissue of his nose. Tears immediately stung Sam's eyes as fresh, warm blood began to flood down his lips, chin and neck. Damn, but Dean had one helluva right hook. Briefly, Sam worried that he might black out, but before he could decide if that was entirely good or bad, his brother had reared back and popped him in the mouth, bruising and splitting his lips.

Desperate, Sam got over the fact that this was Dean and lashed out the only way he could. Wrapping his legs around the bends in his brother's knees, Sam applied pressure in just the right spots to bring Dean down, shoving and swinging with his fists as they fell. Having landed a couple of good blows of his own, he managed to buy enough time to gain access to the weapon he'd dropped just outside the bag earlier. Lightning fast, he spun to his feet, cocking the shotgun as he went.

The playing field suddenly shifted to his advantage and whatever held control over his brother halted its advancement.

"Well, isn't this a nice turn of events? Whatcha gonna do, Sammy? Shoot your brother…again?"

"If I have to," Sam replied, using one arm to swipe away some of the blood.

"You know, he's never really forgotten that. I can't decide what hurt him worse, the salt tearing into his skin or the words that ripped his soul."

The grin was not Dean's, but Sam couldn't help but flinch on the inside at the words. He and Dean had never discussed what had happened beyond that day. Dean had seemed unwilling to talk about it and Sam had been unwilling to press it. Some things were just too hard for words and it was just easier to pretend it away.

"Dean knows I didn't mean any of it."

"Does he? How sure are you?"

"Sure enough. What do you want?"

Sam's words held a world more confidence than he felt.

"You know."

A flat statement couple with a sneer.

"Stay back! I'll do it, I swear."

Dean paused, maybe evaluating the threat behind the words…then raised his hands palm up.

"You'll only be hurting Dean more."

Sam grimaced. The thing was right. Battered and bruised already, Dean didn't need rock salt to the chest added to his problems. But what choice did he have? His heart skipped a beat when the thing wearing Dean took another step toward him.

"Please, don't" Sam whispered.

A glimmer of something flashed across his brother's face, and one hand rose to hang in the air near Dean's temple.

"Dean?"

Sam's face transformed from anguish to hopeful expectation just as quick. Dean took another halting step toward him, but then stopped as a full-on grimace stole over his features and he leaned forward as if in pain. Head dipped and bent forward at the waist, Sam could no longer see his brother's face, but he felt himself lower his gun to half-mast in reaction to what he hoped was happening.

"Fight it, Dean, fight it!"

Dean's head whipped up, his face twisted by scorn and his eyes glowing more brightly.

"Your brother's too weak to fight me off, Sammy. I'm growing stronger every day. His pain is too deep, his guilt strong…it's been a long time since I've come across such a feast."

Dean licked his lips and Sam backed up a step, bringing the gun to attention.

"Let my brother go, you son of a bitch!"

"It's a lost cause – your _brother_ is a lost cause. You might as well put him out of his misery. I own him now."

"You lie. All demons lie."

"Yes, I don't deny it. But, the truth is you're losing him and you know it. He's growing weaker and every day I'm getting stronger – powered by all the pain he holds within. And, there's just so much to work with in here. Things you know nothing about."

Dean stopped; eyes squeezed shut for an instant, and then a satisfied smile spread slowly across his face as he sucked in his breath.

"Oh, yeah. That's it isn't it. The secret buried so deep in the dark places. I can feel your brother's guilt about the…_girl_. It burns him up and eats away at his conscience. He wants to tell you, Sam, but he's so afraid."

That got Sam's full attention. Distracted, Sam blinked and unwittingly allowed the confusion to show.

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid you'll leave him if you find out."

Dean chuckled and spread his arms out wide.

"Oh, yeah, that feels sooo gooood."

Seeing the demon feeding off his brother's agony caused currents of blind rage to course through Sam's body and mind.

"Stop it! I'm gonna rip you apart! I'm gonna send you back to Hell where you belong!" Sam yelled and took a half step forward, teeth bared and chin defiant.

Gales of laughter bubbled up from Dean's throat, low and menacing.

"Oh, strike a chord did we? Well, sorry, kiddo, but it doesn't quite work that way. See, I don't wanna possess Dean, I just want his soul, his pain, his grief. This? This is just a means to an end and you're never gonna get a better chance than now to exorcise me." Dean cocked his head and took yet another step forward as he said, "But, oops, you weren't prepared were you, no Devil's Trap anywhere in sight."

"We'll find another way."

"Better hurry, time's almost up," the thing in Dean hinted, raising a hand and whipping the gun from Sam, sending it clattering against the wall behind him.

In a flash, Sam's back slammed hard against the wall as Dean lifted him in a chokehold, his brother's eerie eyes inches from his own. Grasping his brother's wrists and prying at them, Sam fought and kicked with all his might, lungs already protesting the lack of air.

Dean's outer shell winced as the man within continued to struggle for control. Sam felt the pressure on his throat ease for an instant before the grip was renewed and strengthened. Tears threatened to spill, not as a show of emotion, but as a bodily response to the denial of the oxygen it craved.

"You see, Sam, Dean's just too broken, just too much fun to resist. By the time I'm done, your brother's gonna be begging you to kill him…_if_ he doesn't kill you first. Until then, take comfort in knowing that your brother is all I need to finish out this cycle. Consuming him is equal to at least two souls, a veritable guilt buffet."

Just as Sam's vision began to narrow and fade, the hold on his throat released and he slumped to the floor, gasping and coughing violently. Blinking away the tears, Sam looked over to where Dean had fallen with him. One of his brother's arms still stretched out toward him, palm up. Trembling and sweating, his eyes fluttered open to meet Sam's.

"Saaam," he whimpered, then his body jerked once and his eyes rolled back into his head – his whole body going limp.

TBC

* * *

**A/N#2: I apologize most sincerely for my lateness. I had a moment of "deer in the headlights" fear of messing this up, lol. This chapter pretty well sets all things from here in concrete, after all. Thanks and love to all those who read and reviewed last time…well, really, any time.**

**Special thanks to GaelicSpirit who listened to my whining and gave me some words of wisdom.**

**Also, big thanks to Mady and Tidia for being willing participants on this journey. I appreciate you both very much and would NOT want to do this without you there backing me up. Both of you are such busy ladies, your efforts do not go unnoticed or unappreciated**.

**Now, for the bonus feature, lol. I made a YouTube video to go along with this chapter…but, because this site won't let me copy a link, you'll have to fix the link (see parenthesis) and then insert it into the address window. Also included below are the lyrics to the song in the vid. **

**Warning: vid contains scenes from the Season 2 finale.  
**

**http://www(DOT)youtube(DOT)com/watch?v(put an equal sign here)TnD3DY40vIM  
**

"Coming Undone"

by Korn

Keep holding on  
When my brain's tickin' like a bomb  
Guess the black thoughts have come again to get me  
Sweet bitter words  
Unlike nothing I have heard  
Sing along mocking bird  
You don't affect me

That's right  
Deliverance of my heart  
Please strike  
Be deliberate

_Chorus:_  
Wait  
I'm coming undone  
Irate  
I'm coming undone  
Too late  
I'm coming undone  
One looks so strong  
So delicate  
Wait  
I'm starting to suffocate  
And soon I anticipate  
I'm coming undone  
One looks so strong  
So delicate

Choke choke again  
I thought my demons were my friends  
Getting me in the end  
They're out to get me  
Since I was young  
I've tasted sorrow on my tongue  
And this sweet sugar gun  
Does not protect me

That's right  
Trigger between my eyes  
Please strike  
Make it quick now

_Chorus_

I'm trying to hold it together  
Head is lighter than a feather  
Looks like I'm not getting better  
Not getting better

_Chorus_

**  
**


	8. Chapter 8:Coming Undone Redux

**A/N1:** If you've forgotten the last chapter, it might be helpful to give it another read since this is a recapping through Dean's eyes…but its not necessary. Sorry, yet again, for my slothfulness. I'm enjoying my vacation to the fullest!

* * *

Chapter 8: Undone Redux

Jackknifing into a sitting position, Dean struggled to maintain his composure. Maybe Sam hadn't noticed anything unusual. There was still time to make excuses, to blow off the sudden action. Just as he opened his mouth to let out the lie, the icy-cold presence whispered through his mind again. Slippery as a serpent and just as merciless, it slithered within, coiling tightly around his soul and choking the light. _God. What's happening to me?_

He felt Sam shift on the bed behind him and ask, "Dean? What is it?"

Sam. He had to warn Sam. He tried to push the words past his lips, but they wouldn't come. Panic, fear, and confusion warred within. His body trembled with effort, quaked like earthen plates vying for domination of a too small space. He reached further and fought back against the entity claiming him.

Finally gaining a finger hold on a dangerous precipice, he pushed down all other emotion and embraced his last spark of anger at the violation, biting out, "Run, Sam."

Sam shook his head in dazed confusion, but realized something was very wrong.

_Run, Sam! I can't hold it much longer. Please just…_

"Sam, I can't…RUN!"

Too late, Sam was too late.

A rubber band stretched too far, Dean felt himself expanding, snapping and then flung far into the corners of his mind. Control lost, locked inside his own head – helpless. He watched from a distance as the creature hauled Sam off the bed with _his_ hands and threw his brother against the far wall with an alarming crack.

Blistering anger coursed through his veins as he beat against his jailor – clawing, snatching and bucking against the thing, but it was no use. The black, undulating jelly-like form became a second skin – moving and slipping around him, getting tighter at the slightest let up. Squeezed, engulfed, suffocated by it, he knew eventually he would tire and be lost completely.

"Tsk, tsk. No cheating, Sammy," he heard _it_ say, "This fight's all mano a mano."

A sharp blow connected with his stomach, knocking the air from him with a whoosh and igniting the fury of his ribs. _Good boy, Sammy. You can do this, you can get away. Keep it comin'. _But Sam was too slow. The Culpa Moh gripped his shirtfront and delivered a killer blow to his nose. Inwardly, Dean flinched. That _had_ to hurt. The sight of the blood flowing freely from Sam's nose sickened him and he knew his brother was struggling to stay conscious. The second blow must have awakened Sam's survival instinct, because suddenly he was no longer afraid to use pain to his advantage. Little brother lined out all his best moves.

_Atta boy, Sam! _

Heartened, Dean renewed his efforts. How long could this demon fight against two Winchesters – one fighting within and one fighting without? He had to find its weakness. Everything has a weakness his dad had preached. Dean began reciting Latin rites within the confines of his mind while focusing on the love he held for his brother. Demons hated love, right? Could work. It was certainly worth a try.

Surprisingly, he felt the beast recoil. Was it the Latin, the brotherly love or the salt-loaded shotgun pointed at its – his – chest? Dean couldn't be sure, but something was definitely provoking a reaction. Before he could act on this knowledge, the demon burrowed into his soul, dug deep and brought forth painful memories that scalded away his resolve.

_At his name, he turned, saw Sam with the shotgun trained at his chest. Words exchanged and then an explosion of rock salt blasted him backwards through the splintering wood behind him. Blackness for a few seconds and then sharp, stinging pain riddle his chest. Lungs labored for air as Sam appeared above him._

_Then the hated words, "Are you that desperate for his approval?! I have a mind of my own. I'm not pathetic like __**you**__". _

_The glinting silver of the pistol pointed directly at his head._

"_You hate me that much? Think you can kill your own brother? Well, then, go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it!"_

_Click. Shocked disappointment twisted Sam's features. Click…click..._

"Well, isn't this a nice turn of events? Whatcha gonna do, Sammy? Shoot your brother…_again_?" the demon taunted.

It enjoyed the chaos it created, but Sam held steady. A single flinch the only tell that the words hit home.

"Dean knows I didn't mean any of it," Sam answered.

_That's right, Sammy. Get your game face on._

But the demon knew all the right words.

"You'll only be hurting Dean more."

_No way, not on my watch. You will NOT use me against my brother._

Anger unleashed, brightly burning, and the unwanted thing was momentarily startled. For an instant, Dean surfaced, took a victory breath and then felt the world fall away as another memory tore loose.

"_Dean! Help me!" _

_Hannah was hanging below him, her delicate hand clutched at his, terror marring her beautiful face. Her beautiful, __**innocent**__ face. Tears streamed from eyes that begged for life – begged him to save her._

Somewhere outside the abyss, the demon gloated.

"Oh, yeah. That's it isn't it. The secret buried so deep in the dark places. I can feel your brother's guilt about the…_girl_. It burns him up and eats away at his conscience.

"_Please, Dean. I don't wanna die." _

_Her voice cracked on the last syllable. Then she was falling away from him._

"_NOOO…" his scream followed her into the dark night and then blood…blood everywhere. _

"Your brother's too weak to fight me, Sammy. I'm growing stronger everyday. His pain is too deep, his guilt strong…it's been a long time since I've come across such a feast."

_His fault. He looked down at his shaking hands. Hands that could not hold, could not protect. They were covered in blood. Her blood. And, so were his clothes. The copper smell filled his nostrils as the echo of her screams filled his ears and he found himself cowering on cold cement, hands clapped over his ears in an attempt to shut out the sounds of her dying – her screams revisiting him over and over again._

"Oh, yeah, that feels sooo gooood," the demon purred. "Better hurry, time's almost up."

Drowning in grief, but regaining awareness, Dean heard a gurgling gasp for air and knew instinctively that it was Sam. Images swirled dizzily in front of him and he squeezed his eyes shut to regroup. Sam was dying. The demon was in full control and choking the life out of his brother. Sam's grunts were growing weaker with each passing second. Dean could feel the pleasure surging through the demon. His brother was going to die at his own hands. Abject fear replaced guilt, flooded in and washed it all away. Falling…he was falling.

He didn't know how it happened. Maybe the demon decided toying with him was too much fun to rush things? Maybe he'd finally forced it out? It didn't really matter, because he was _free_. His body seized and agony replaced rational thought, but he didn't care about that. Sam's coughing sputters for air met his ears in a joyous chorus of sound, of life. His brother was alive – safe. Opening his eyes, Dean's gaze locked and held Sam's for what could have been an eternity. Slowly, his brother was crowded out by dancing rainbow circles and he knew he didn't have much time. To comfort? To apologize? To confess?

"Saaam..."

His overtaxed body jerked painfully and he knew nothing more.

"Dean?"

It came out a harsh cough as Sam's throat continued to spasm. Pushing himself up on one quivering arm, Sam shook his head and then eased up to his knees – keeping his eyes glued to Dean's splayed, unmoving form.

"Dean!"

Scooting over to his brother, Sam lifted him, slid his crossed legs under and rested Dean's head on his thigh. Checking his brother's injuries, he was relieved to see the shoulder stitches had held, for the most part, and there was minimal blood loss. Dean's left wrist looked a little swollen, but that was to be expected after such harsh mistreatment. All things considered, these were the least of their problems. A throaty protest to the man-handling assured Sam that his brother was only 'out' for the time being. Still recovering, Sam found that his fingers wouldn't still as he laid them against the pallid, stubble-ridden cheek. How could someone so strong look so fragile?

"Wake-up, man. Hey! I _need_ you to wake-up. Please, Dean."

Giving Dean a little shake, he called his name and patted his slackened face. No response. Knowing he didn't presently have the strength to get either one of them on the bed, he did the only thing he could think of. Heaving Dean up and forward, Sam hooked an arm around his brother's chest, drew him close and dragged them both backwards until his back met the bed. Once there, he settled Dean against his chest, head nestled on Sam's shoulder – slightly tucked under his ear – and took a minute to catch his breath.

Head reclined on the bed, Sam blinked away fear-induced wetness. Dean's heart was fluttering softly against his open palm with patterned regularity – chest rising and falling beneath his hand. Sweat from his brother's forehead left damp spots on Sam's skin that cooled rapidly as it evaporated. Rolling his head to meet the top of Dean's, Sam closed his eyes and thanked God his brother seemed to be only resting.

The room had gone quiet except for the static buzz of the air conditioner. Alone with his thoughts, the scenes replayed themselves repeatedly in his head. Dean's face twisting as he fought for control. Carnal malice creeping across his brother's features as the thing took over. Amused delight when the demon tapped into his brother's pain and _savored_ it.

And confirmation that Dean was keeping something from him – something important. A secret about a girl, the demon had said. What could be so bad that Dean would be _afraid_ to tell him? The demon was right, Sam was losing his brother – he could feel it. From one space to the next, he could see Dean wearing down, losing the battle. Maybe if he knew what the secret was, could help Dean shoulder it, they'd have more time to figure this thing out. But getting Dean to confess? That posed a whole new set of dangers.

Something like that could wreck the bond they'd painstakingly rebuilt over the last two years. It could push Dean over an edge he might not come back from. What if the secret changed something delicate and precious between them? Exhausted, Sam let his eyes shut, telling himself it was only for a second. A second stretched into a minute and a minute stretched into the next until, finally, Sam slept.

oooOOOooo

_Sometime much later…_

Cold, he was so cold. Yet, he was drenched in sweat. Maybe his body was in shock. It was definitely in pain. That fight with Sam had been hell on his injuries and had reawakened his damn shoulder and ribs. That fight with Sam. Oh, God…he'd tried to kill Sam! Okay, maybe not him exactly, but the thing inside. It had used him, made him into a weapon against the only thing he had left in life worth living for. He was a danger to Sam now, couldn't be trusted. It was his duty to keep his brother safe and he'd failed big time. No way could he let that happen again. No matter what.

Close by music blared and demanded someone's attention, preventing him from carrying through with his thoughts. A figure brushed by, grazing his outstretched hand as it passed. The music silenced and a voice took its place.

"Hello? Oh, hey, Bobby. Yeah, it's Sam, Dean's asleep. Not great, I'm a little worried to tell the truth."

Dean heard his brother's hushed voice tremble and knew the words had been an understatement of mass proportions.

"I think he's okay for now, just resting. Did you find anything?"

A pause.

"Uh huh. Yeah, we kinda figured as much. I thought these things didn't possess people?"

Pause.

"Well, I guess that makes sense. Okay, so…how do we kill it?"

Another pause, this time long.

"But, Bobby, there has to be something else, someway to-"

_Well, that didn't sound good._

"Well, what's that mean? Yeah, yeah, I get that, but-"

A heavy sigh and the sound of a hand scrubbing through hair.

"All right. But, if you don't find anything else…if there's no other choice…"

_Yeah, I'm screwed._

"Yeah, I know you will. Thanks, Bobby."

Sam's bed groaned beneath the sudden weight and there was another heavy huff of air. Whatever Bobby had told Sam, it wasn't good. What if there was no way to stop this thing? A drink, he needed a drink right the hell now – and not of water. He needed to settle his nerves and make a plan. A plan to keep Sam safe. Safe from him.

Reluctantly pushing sticky eyelids apart, he braced himself for the onslaught of pain as he arduously pushed himself up.

"Dean! You're awake!"

Before Sam could clear the bed, Dean was holding up a hand, keeping his brother at arm's length.

"No. Don't," Dean growled.

"What, Dean?"

"Get the handcuffs from the trunk."

"What!? Wh-no. No, Dean. I'm not handcuffing you."

"Yes, Sam you are. I'm a danger to you, to others. Get the cuffs."

"But, Dean, your shoulder…"

"Doesn't _matter_, Sam! Get the cuffs or I'm outta here."

Sam blanched at the threat. Dean was dead serious and he knew it. Disgusted, Sam stomped out to the Impala, found the cuffs and slammed back into the room.

"This is stupid, Dean. You're not gonna hurt me. It's not coming back, not like that."

"You don't know that," Dean insisted.

"Bobby said-"

"Bobby said what, Sam? That you can't kill this thing?"

"You were awake?"

"Yeah."

Sam shifted the cuffs into one hand and gestured with the other.

"That's not it. He didn't say we _couldn't_ kill it, he just said killing it wasn't without risks."

Looking up at Sam from under his brows, Dean asked, "Risks? What risks?"

"Well, for one, it might get trapped in your body. For good."

Quirking an eyebrow, Dean said nothing, knowing there was more.

When Sam said nothing, he prodded, "And?"

"And, the black magic involved is, well, _black_. Dangerous to the cast-er and the cast-ee."

"No, Sam."

"Dean-"

"No. It's too dangerous. Black magic can easily turn against you, and will more times than not."

"I know, but what choice do we have? I'll be careful, I will. Besides, Bobby's still looking for another way. We've still got time."

Dean broke eye contact, pursed his lips then bowed his head.

Looking back up, he said, "Give me the cuffs."

"I'll do it."

Sam gently lifted Dean's right arm. Clamping the hardened steel around his brother's wrist, he then clamped the other end to the bed's headboard – feeling lucky this motel had beds with headboards or Dean would have demanded he cuff both arms.

"There. Happy?"

"No. But I will be."

Confused, Sam cocked his head, watching as Dean grunted and winced – rummaging through the bedside drawer with his opposite hand. Then, pulling out the flask and the pill bottle, he settled back against his pillows and proceeded to pop three of the pills into his mouth, washing them down with the last of the liquor.

Shaking the flask to emphasize its emptiness, Dean said, "I need a refill, Sammy. Care to help your maimed, demon-possessed brother out?"

"Dean. You're not demon-possessed-"

"Yeah, yeah, don't work that way…yadda, yadda, yadda." Then, with sincerity, "Please, Sam."

He gestured with the empty container again.

"Do you think it's a good idea to mix the two?"

Feeling contrary, Sam had to ask even though he knew the answer. Even though Dean had said _please_.

"Sure. Why not? Might as well be a good host and get the party started right."

Dean patted his belly. Sam shook his head, did the predictable scoff, and did as Dean asked. Confident he'd made his hesitation look good, he snagged the keys and headed to the gas station. He knew what he had to do. Get Dean drunk. How else would they be able to get through what he knew was coming next.

oooOOOooo

An hour and a half later, Dean Winchester was skunked. One hundred percent, no doubt about it, hammered, soused, under the table, tanked. It didn't happen easily, but that's where the pills had come in handy. He was flying so high Sam doubted he could spell his own name right about now. Time for phase two.

"Dean, how much do you remember about what the demon said while it possessed you?"

"Said," Dean slurred, "it talked?"

"Yeah. I think something it said might be important."

"Pbfft. We already knew I'm the awesomer brother. Probly why it picked me."

"Nice, but no. I don't think that was it."

"Okay, Sam-mie-pie, spill. You know you're _dying_ to."

Dean grinned mischievously, put the bottle to his lips and took deep pull.

Rolling his eyes, Sam moved to the edge of his bed, close as he could get to Dean without actually sliding off the bed.

"It said you had a secret. A secret about a girl. What was it talking about, Dean?"

Dean's face closed up, eyes lit for a split second by surprise.

"I dunno. Probly just tryin' ta get yer goat. Looks like it worked."

Dean tossed back another swallow of beer. Sam had switched him over a while ago. His goal was to get Dean drunk, not to pass out.

"No. I don't think that was it...and I think you know _exactly_ what it was talking about, Dean."

Dean began shaking his head, but Sam interrupted him before the denial came.

"Damn it, Dean. Don't be stubborn. There's nothing you can't tell me. I promise, whatever it is, we'll work through it together."

"Not this."

Acknowledging his slip, Dean sat up and turned his back on Sam, his shackled arm stretched beside him, the other hanging loosely along his leg.

"How do you know?"

"Because I just do, alright!" he exploded. "You can't handle this. Not this."

The last part said quietly. Too quietly. The anguish and foreboding in Dean's voice bristled the hair at Sam's neck. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure he did want to know.

"Dean, don't shut me out. I don't need to be protected, I need to be treated as an equal-"

"Stop it, Sam! Just stop it, okay!"

Dean tried to stand, to get away, but his legs were wobbly and the cuffs wouldn't allow it. Seeing his brother struggling to keep his composure and fighting to keep his feet, Sam walked over and freed him.

"What'd you do that for?"

"You're not going to hurt me. Dean, I trust you. Can't you please…please just trust me? Tell me what's going on? I need to know if I'm going to help you."

Turning abruptly – for a second, nearly toppling over – Dean pleaded, "Please, Sam. Don't do this. Don't _make_ me do this."

Stunned by the quivering plea, the defeated stance, Sam's mouth snapped shut. Hands to hips and a deep breath, Sam made his own plea.

"Dean. I have to know what we're dealing with. I need to know what this demon is using against you. I can't help you if you don't tell me. It's safer for _both_ of us if I know."

It wasn't fair, Sam knew, to play Dean like that, but he had to play hardball if wanted his brother to come clean. Slowing, unsteadily, Dean faced him. Sam loathed what this was doing to his brother – briefly considered backing off even – but didn't dare break face for a second.

Despair coloring his eyes, Dean whispered, "And what if I tell you and…you leave?"

He didn't think it was possible to be surprised any further, but with that softly spoken question, Sam felt his heart do a double somersault.

Quick to deny, he reassured, "Dean, I'm not going anywhere, dude. What could you possibly say that would change that? I'm not going to leave. You're my brother. I promise, we're in this together. You and me."

Their eyes met and silent messages transmitted between them. Dean's face, now stark white, greened a little at what he was about to do. Sam was right. This was the right thing to do. The _deserved_ thing to do. Placing a hand to his stomach, he felt his fear settle there, churn and twist. Pressing a quick fist to his lips, he turned and made for the bathroom, shoving Sam aside and falling in front of the toilet.

Retching violently, his stomach attempted to rid itself of all the liquor, all the terror at what he was about to do. Maybe he'd rupture something in his head, die now and take his secret to the grave. One could always hope. The obscene amount of pressure being exerted on his brain from the repeated full-body heaves made it seem possible. Vaguely, he was aware that Sam had come into the room and had perched himself on the tub next to him. Then, one large paw rested itself mid-way down his back. How could things possibly get more wretched? Once the gagging stopped, he allowed gravity to pull him back to sit against the tub, legs pushed out front.

"You all right?"

Dean nodded, but didn't attempt to stand. Lowering himself down, Sam took the spot next to his brother, handing him a dry cloth to wipe his mouth.

Dean nodded his thanks, then, after a few beats asked, "You sure you want to hear this?"

Sam nodded. Dean pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head there, arms tucked around his stomach. It was an unconscious protective measure, but not looking at Sam, pretending to talk to the floor was the only way he was going to be able to do this.

TBC

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**A/N2:** Super huge thanks to Mady for the beta even though she JUST stepped in the door from her vacation and to Tidia for the multiple looks. I wouldn't want to post without these guys, y'all.

Big hugs and thanks to everyone who read and super special cookies to those who reviewed…I'm so appreciative to be a part of this great fandom.

And, big props to GaelicSpirit for giving me a push – thank you for being my friend.


	9. Chapter 9: Guilty Confessions

A/N#1: Well, here we are, ready for the big moment! I figure this chapter has the potential to make or break this story for some of you…so you can imagine that I'm a tiny bit nervous as I post this. All I can say in my defense is that a large part of this has been begging to be wrote ever since I watched "Croatoan" and "Hunted," so please indulge me. This and following chapters are my reaction to those episodes. Also, I was a little excited to post this one, so I didn't go over the whole thing one last time as is usual…forgive my mistakes. I always alter a few things after the betas are done, so the blame is mine.

Chapter 9: Guilty Confessions

Dean took a deep breath. This was it, confession time. And when he was done, would Sam choose to stay or walk away? Only one way to find out. He couldn't help but smirk as he thought of the old adage, "the truth shall set you free." In _his_ limited experience with truth telling, he'd found that people lied with _good_ reason.

"Dean?"

Sam's gentle prod came with a subtle shift closer to Dean's side. He could feel his brother's warmth pressing into him. Somehow, that only made this harder, the impending empty, coldness after so much closeness nearly an unbearable risk.

"About two years after you left," Dean began, voice nearly failing on 'left', "Dad sent me on a routine haunting job on my own." He glanced at Sam and clarified, "He was still down from our last hunt and we'd been splitting up to do jobs more and more."

Then he chuckled nervously, lips twitching, "It was one of those touristy type places that we used to visit just for laughs. Remember?"

He paused for Sam's nod before continuing, "Well, this one actually had several spirits living in it. Most of them harmless. But, after some workers opened up a hidden room, things started to go a little sideways. Reports of flying books – one clipped a man in the head hard enough to give him a concussion – people being pushed down a flight of stairs and some kids that got locked in a closet."

Sam nodded, then smirked, "Yeah, sounds like a similar situation that happened at local tourist mansion near Stanford."

Dean's heart skipped a beat, but he forced a convincing smirk.

"Since the owners of the place had contacted Dad and knew I was coming, there was no need for fake IDs or pretense." Dean lifted his head and gestured with his hand, "I just walked in and got down to business, interviewing, EMF readings – the works. I was just getting ready to head back to the motel when _she_ walked in to start her shift."

Dean wasn't looking at Sam now, but inward. Both of his hands were helping to tell the story as his mind remembered the image his words were painting.

"She was _so_ fine, but classy…" Dean paused, anxiously licked his lips and glanced at Sam again. With a fondness not often heard in his voice, he went on, "But in an innocent, pure way that said she was totally unaware of how she looked."

"_Hey. My name's Dean. Your boss hired me to look into the recent problems with uninvited guests. Got a minute?"_

_Chocolate hair burnished with gold veiled the girl's features as she dug around under the shelf below the countertop. _

"_Just a sec," she mumbled, finally sparing Dean a glance. But when her gaze met his, mahogany eyes held fast to soulful green ones a few seconds too long and she quickly broke the contact, a blush coloring the apples of her cheeks._

_Leaning against the counter, Dean flashed his Winchester Special and waited for her to work up the courage to make eye contact again._

"_So, been working here long?" he asked._

"_Uh, actually," she smiled, "three months today."_

_Dean nodded, then asked, "Have you got time to answer a few questions?" _

_When she looked at him questioningly, he leaned closer and whispered, "You know, about the recent injuries, flying books and what have you?"_

_Her eyes widened slightly and she breathed, "Oh, that." Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she looked pointedly at the growing line of weary parents and elderly couples behind Dean before answering, "Well, actually, now's not a good time." Seeing Dean's smile falter, she rushed on quickly, "But, I always stay after business hours to do paper work...and I wouldn't mind some company then."_

"_Well, all right. That sounds perfect-" Dean leaned closer to read her name tag. "Miss..."_

"_You can call me Hannah, Mr., uh…" she stumbled knowing she'd missed his name earlier._

"_Dean. Call me Dean."_

So far, Dean had managed to keep Hannah's name out of the retelling, sticking to bare facts. He wanted a chance to get most of it out before Sam caught on. He suspected his little brother already had a million questions running through his mind, but to his credit, Sam listened quietly – letting Dean tell it in his own time.

"She was finishing up end of shift chores and I was working out how to prolong the evening when we heard a crash overhead. Sounded like something falling."

"_Stay here. I'll go check it out."_

_Grabbing Dean's arm, Hannah stopped him, saying, "Wait. You'll have to have the keys to get up there and there's so many it could take you forever to figure out which ones to use. I'm coming with you."_

_She held up the laden key ring and gave them a jingle. Dean's eyes shifted from the confusing mass to meet hers. Seeing the sense in what she was saying, he nodded._

_Rifling through the duffle bag he'd dropped at his feet, Dean pulled out his sawed-off shotgun filled with rock salt and answered, "Okay, but after you unlock the doors, stay back."_

"_Fine by me," she stated, shocked eyes appraising the weapon, and then led the way._

_The Winchester Mystery House was literally a maze of rooms, hallways and stairs. Dean's research had revealed that no one was even sure how many rooms there really were, though it was estimated at 160. Sara Winchester, wife of gun mogul William Winchester, built the house shortly after losing her husband and daughter. She had moved west and begun construction of the house after a medium told her that the spirits of those killed by Winchester rifles were seeking vengeance on the family – and that she would be next if she didn't follow specific instructions given to her through the medium. Sara had believed that as long as the house remained unfinished and in a state of perpetual construction, she would live. So until her death, the sound of hammers and building could be heard 24 hours a day._

_Several doors and stair steps later, Hannah unlocked the final door and quickly stepped behind Dean. Eyebrows up, he waited for her to nod that she was ready and then twisted the door knob and pushed it open. Scanning the room, he stepped over the threshold, gun at the ready. There was an extreme temperature difference from where he had just come. Over in the far corner of the room, one of the family photo portraits lay prone on the floor, clearly shattered. Dean could see its metallic frame glint dully in the dim overnight lighting. Switching on his EMF detector, Dean moved toward the center of the room, making general sweeping motions as he went. Immediately the home-made device lighted up and squawked loudly. _

"_Dean! Behind you!" Hannah shouted and pointed, clearly freaked._

_Spinning around, Dean found himself face to face with a shimmering figure too close to blast with the gun. With a startled yelp, he was flung backwards into a wall, causing him to lose both his weapon and the detector. Struggling to sit up, he looked around for possible weapons as the spirit hovered in front of him. A loud blast of flying rock salt dissipated the figure immediately. Hannah stood where Dean had been, wide-eyed with shock – gun at the ready._

_Three strides and Dean was relieving her of the gun, snagging his EMF detector and shoving them both out of the room and back down the hall from where they'd come._

_Running hell bent for leather for the main entrance, Dean shouted, "Grab your stuff, time to go."_

Sam was looking at Dean with twinkling eyes, laughing as he said, "You had to be saved by the _girl_?"

"Yeah, okay, laugh it up, funny man."

Dean rubbed at his face with both hands and then rested his arms straight out on his knees, hands hanging loosely at the wrist.

"No, I'm sorry, Dean. Please, continue."

Dean threw his brother an oddly sad look that Sam was unable to decipher. Sam shivered a little at how old it made his brother look.

"C'mon, Dean. I'm sorry, really. Tell me the rest."

Sighing, Dean let his gaze fall back to the wall and shrugged, "By the time we got to the parking lot, she was shaking so bad that I offered to drive her home."

At this point, Dean knew he'd have to skip around some pretty big details. He wasn't ready for Sam to hear about the parts that would _matter_. How he had sat in the Impala comforting the frightened girl for several minutes. About how she'd turned gorgeous, trusting eyes to him and asked question after question about what had happened and what he did. She had believed everything he told her without hesitation _and_ wanted to help. Her innocence touching a chord deep inside him.

And, he certainly wasn't ready to tell Sam how he'd driven Hannah to her apartment complex just in time to see a laughing Sam and Jess enter same said building. Or how he'd grabbed Hannah's arm and pulled her back to keep her from yelling out a greeting to her friends. No need to mention how his heart had stammered and ached at the sight of his brother happy in a life that didn't include him. How sweat had immediately slicked his face and palms at the possible confrontation. That with the heartache also came relief that Sam was doing well and looked happy.

"_Dean? What's the matter?" her soft voice asked, concern lacing each word as she stared at the paling man beside her._

"_Nothing, I ju-just…" he tried to think up a suitable lie, but came up blank._

"_You're just not up to company right now," she filled in._

_Giving her a shy smile that didn't quite fit his face, he agreed, "Not really. I've gotta get back and do some research, make a plan for our unwelcome guest."_

"_Yeah, no problem. I understand." Her scent filled the air as she shook her head and he was both excited and put at ease by it._

_Dean knew this wasn't the smartest thing to do, but he couldn't keep the words from tumbling out._

"_So, you know those people?"_

"_Sam and Jessica. Well, sure. Jess is my best friend and Sam is her boyfriend. He's great guy. A little reserved sometimes, but nice. Jess and I have been friends forever. Before Sam, we lived together in my apartment. They just moved in together last weekend in the apartment right below me."_

"_Really?" Dean croaked, "They look good together."_

"_Oh, yeah, they're perfect for each other. I'm so happy for them both. You sure you can't stay and meet them?"_

_Tearing his attention away from the lighted room and shadowed figures now in the apartment, Dean blurted, "No! Uh, no. Not tonight. I've got a lot of work to do before I hit the sack." He touched her wrist lightly. "And, Hannah, I need you to promise you won't tell your friends about me or what happened tonight, okay?"_

"_Well, no problem about what happened – they'd never believe me anyway," she chuckled, "but why not you?"_

"_Just, well, just…in my business…it's best to keep a low profile, if you know what I mean."_

_Disappointment clear, she answered, "Yeah, I guess. Will I see you again?"_

_The last part was said shyly and he knew she wasn't the kind of girl who would ever make the first move. Her deep brown eyes fixed on his again and then dropped to his lips, causing her face to redden—just barely visible in the weak street light._

"_How about tomorrow? I could swing by after closing and stay with you until you finish up and then take you out to dinner."_

"_Yeah, I'd like that," she smiled. "Well, Dean, good night. Thanks for driving me home."_

"_Hey, no problem. I couldn't have you driving home alone after all that. I'll wait until you get inside before I take off."_

"_Okay, thanks."_

_Dean watched her climb out and shut the door, eyes tracking her every move. A breeze caught her hair and fanned it away from her face just as she passed in front of the car. She really has no idea beautiful she is, he thought in wonder. Then, she turned, waved and disappeared inside. Dean found himself wishing things could be different, that he could be different. But, he didn't belong in her world. Just like he no longer belonged in Sam's._

_He started the engine, hoping his brother wouldn't hear the familiar rumble, then put the car in gear. Speeding away, shoulders tight and hunched against the urge to go back and pound down Sam's door, Dean slammed his fist hard against the steering wheel. Later, back at the motel, he sat frozen in the car. He couldn't stop staring at the number punched into the cell phone – his thumb hovering over the green call button. _

_How long had he been sitting like that anyway? Didn't matter. He knew even if he pressed the button Sam wouldn't answer, hadn't answered all the other times he'd tried to make contact. Why should now be any different. With a curse, he pressed the power down button and stuffed the phone back in his coat pocket. Maybe he could understand why Sam wanted to cut all ties to the life he'd been raised in, but that didn't ease the pain of knowing he wasn't welcome. Wasn't welcome. Yeah, that cut pretty deep. Deep enough to sting his eyes and constrict his ability to breathe for a few seconds. Ah, hell, he probably deserved it anyway – no use dwelling on it. He had a job to do._

Dean had stopped abruptly several minutes ago and Sam wasn't sure what to do. He was afraid to spook Dean into sullenness and afraid if he waited too long his brother might sober up enough to stop altogether. Sitting this close to him, Sam felt the tiny tremors ripple through Dean's body, could hear his strained, quickened breathing.

"Ya alright?" Sam drawled.

Dean turned and blinked at Sam as if he had just realized where he was.

"I'm fine."

They both let the lie hang between them. Sam only nodded.

"A little thirsty, though," he continued, "and a change of location might be good."

Sam grinned and said, "Yeah. My ass's gone numb."

Standing up, he offered a hand to his brother. Wincing, Dean pressed his free arm tightly against his side as he rose. Sam hovered behind until he sunk down onto the bed. Grabbing a couple of long necks from the ice bucket, Sam joined his brother.

"So," Sam started, "what happened next?"

Dean swallowed the cold beer and pursed his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps weighing how much to tell, or maybe searching for the right words, Sam couldn't be sure.

"Well, since my geek brother was busy getting himself an education and research is really not my thing, it took me the rest of the week to work out where we might find the bones."

Brows to ceiling, Sam asked incredulously, "We? You mean you took an innocent girl on a hunt?"

"What choice did I have, Sam? I needed her help to find the hidden rooms—you should've seen the big ass key chain she carried around." Dean's face sobered with the misery of his next words, "And, I thought I could protect her."

"You thought? Dean…what happened?"

Dean cleared his throat and cast his eyes downward.

"By Friday we only had one possible floor left to search – just the one – so we decided to wait until Saturday when the place would be closed to the public and we'd have all day to look. On Thursday one of the maintenance men had been killed in a freak onsite accident and the funeral was set for that day."

Sam squinted at Dean.

"Was it?"

"Was it what?"

"An accident?"

"No. The thing was upping the ante. I knew we had to hurry before more people died." Shaking his head he said, "But I figured things could wait until Saturday, you know? Just one more day was all." Voice low and eyes unreadable, Dean continued, "It had been a long week and some things had…happened and…I-I let myself get distracted. By five o'clock Friday afternoon, I was sitting at a local bar feeling a little sorry for myself."

Dean stopped again, obviously reluctant to relive the memory.

"Then she called," Dean shrugged, "terrified and begging me to come right away. S-said she was trapped in a closet with the bones and couldn't get out. I got over there as fast as I could, kept her on the cell so I could keep her calm and so she could guide me to where she was."

"_Okay, I'm outside the sixth bedroom, now where?"_

_Voice shaking, she replied, "Keep going down the hallway until you come to the second staircase and then go up. It'll take you to the top landing, then make a right. I'm in the closet of the last room on the left. Please hurry, Dean."_

"_It's okay, s'gonna be okay, I'm going up the stairs now. Keep talkin' to me, Hannah. What'd you see before the door closed?"_

"_I don't know, just some old bones...then the door slammed shut."_

"_Did it look like they were all there?"_

"_Ummm…" he heard her shuffle the phone to the other ear, her breaths coming in pants "Yeah, I think so."_

"_Good—that's good."_

"_Dean, wh-where are you now?" _

"_On the landing, headin' your way."_

_Thankfully, the door to the room itself was wide open. Rushing to the closet door, Dean pounded on it._

"_Hannah! You in there?"_

_The doorknob began bobbing and dancing furiously up and down._

"_Thank God, you found me! Please, get me outta here, Dean!"_

"_Now I'm gonna need you to stand back in the left corner – as far as you can get – okay? I'm gonna bust in the door."_

"_Okay!" she yelled back._

_Dean reared back and kicked at the door with all his might. The wood splintered where his foot struck, but stood intact. With his second kick, it flew open and suddenly his arms were full of Hannah, soft and smelling of sweet peas._

_Letting his arms go tightly around her, he dropped his chin into her hair and murmured, "It's okay, I've gotcha now. Everything's gonna be okay." Then, more gruffly, "What were you thinking coming up here alone?"_

"_I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I know I should've waited. I just wanted to take a quick look, that's all. The next thing I knew, something shoved me in and slammed the door shut."_

_His heart thumped hard at the fragility in her voice. It was almost as if she was more afraid of his disapproval than of what could have happened to her._

"_It's all right, I'm not mad. You just scared me is all. I'm here now and you're safe."_

_The tenderness in his voice completely dissolved all of her attempts at bravery. Her warm tears flooded through his shirt and her shoulders rocked with guttural sobs as she tightened her hold on him. One hand entangled in her hair and the other rubbed circles on her back as he pressed a kiss to her temple and let his lips linger there. After a minute, the sobs lessened their intensity and he forced her to look up at him, his fingers lightly cupping her chin._

"_Listen, we've gotta get those bones out to the lawn so we can burn them, okay? I'm gonna need your help. Can you do that for me?"_

_Biting her lip and swiping at the falling tears, she nodded and stepped away._

"_What do you need me to do?"_

"_Well, first, let's use that curtain to carry the bones. Here, you hold this," he took the shotgun out of the duffle he'd brought, "and shoot anything that's not me."_

_Nodding again, she took the gun and watched as Dean tore down the curtains and hastily wrapped the bones within. Securing the cloth in a double knot, he noticed the chill in the air. He looked up as Hannah flew backwards into the bookshelves behind them. In a flurry of motion, Dean dove for the gun and fired off a shot seconds before an enormous mirror slammed into him, spraying his head, neck and back with shards of jagged glass. Stunned, he stumbled forward – managing to throw out a hand to steady himself. He thought he might black out from the hard knock to his head._

"_Dean!" Hannah cried, pulling herself upright and crawling toward him._

_Shaking himself like a dog, he muttered gruffly, "I'm fine. You okay?" _

_She stood, saying, "Got a bump on my head, but-"_

"_Hannah! Don't move!" _

_His sharp warning came too late. Hanging motionless in the air behind her was hundreds of gleaming slivers of mirror. She turned in response to Dean's shout and the miniature spears launched through the air – cutting and imbedding into her flesh like tiny, ravenous teeth. Hannah's scream split the air and reverberated inside his skull. His legs and feet couldn't move fast enough as he scrambled for her. Breath lodged in his throat, he grabbed her arm and spun her around. From head to knee, she was dotted and striped by her own blood. Still hanging onto her, he brought the other arm straight up, pulling the trigger as soon as it leveled. The apparition evaporated instantly._

"_Hannah?" he jerked her arm and drew her toward him, being careful of the pieces still imbedded in her skin. _

_Crying, but trying not to, Hannah was brushing at whatever was loose. _

"_It's all right," Dean tried to soothe, "you're gonna be fine. Look at me," he commanded, checking her over. "None of the cuts are really bad. We can fix this, okay?"_

"_Okay, okay," she stuttered out. _

_Her nails bit into his skin as he pulled her after him out of the room. He hesitated long enough to grab the bag of bones on the way out the door. Pulling it shut, Dean leaned against the oak door as a wave of dizziness hit him full force. The heavy frame from the mirror had really rung his bell._

"_Are you okay?" Hannah whispered beside him._

_Already nodding, Dean mumbled, "Yeah, fine. Jus-just gimme a minute."_

_He had to get Hannah out of there quick, but everything was shifting unsteadily under his feet. _

"_Look, you lead the way and I'll be right behind-"_

_An invisible hand cut off his words. No longer able to breathe, he clawed at his throat. Suddenly he found himself sliding up the door until he no longer touched the floor, all the way up until his head bumped against the top and bent his neck at an odd angle. Gasping, kicking and fighting against his attacker didn't seem to have effect. Spots began dancing before his eyes, but he was aware of Hannah's voice somewhere below him._

"_Hey! This what you want? Let him go and come and get it you freaky bastard."_

_The pressure around his throat eased, allowing him to gulp in fresh air. Opening his eyes, he saw Hannah standing in front of a large window that ended the hallway in top to bottom glory. She was holding the bones in the air, an offering in exchange for him._

"_No, Hannah—don't!"_

_The transparent being holding him prisoner was suddenly not so transparent. Translucence gave way to dreary gray. The figure of a man rippled and shimmered before them. Hannah definitely had its attention, its eyes following the bag wherever she moved it. Freed, Dean collapsed in graceless heap on the floor. Slowly, he inched his hand closer toward his shotgun, drawing out two more rounds with the other. _

"_No sudden movements, Hannah," he said in a low voice. "Just ease the bag down to the floor and back away carefully."_

_Dean quietly dropped the rounds into the barrel and clicked it shut. Blinking his eyes, he fought against the blurred vision and tried to judge the distance between him, the target and Hannah. She had backed up against the window – one hand fisting in the curtain behind her and the other inching the bag toward the floor. A ghostly wail filled the room as the creature charged the cowering girl._

_No time to think, Dean drew the shotgun up and fired at the same moment Hannah tried to dodge the attacking ghost—putting herself directly in Dean's sights. Rock salt blasted through the spirit and hit Hannah full-center of her chest, knocking her through the window in an explosion of glass and screams. _

"_NO!" Dean's cry joined the girl's as he ran and slid to where she had been._

_A few feet below him, she clung to the remnants of the curtain, now ripped and fluttering in the wind. _

"_Oh thank God," Dean breathed._

_He leaned out as far as he could without losing traction and offered his hand._

"_Grab my hand!"_

"_No, I can't. I can't!" Her hysteria was building._

"_Hannah," he reasoned, "you have to. That's not gonna hold much longer. No! Don't look down. Keep your eyes on me. Now, reach up with your other hand and grab mine."_

_Long, dark hair billowing out in the rising wind, she hesitated, then said, "Dean, I'm scared. I don't want to die."_

_Sweat gathered and ran in rivulets down his face and back. His vision had cleared a little but his head swam dizzily. He felt like throwing up._

"_You can do this," he shouted. "Trust me!"_

_Dean inched out the window a little more and beckoned with his hand. She looked into his eyes, her own pleading for her life. She trusted him. He could see it the moment she'd made up her mind. Hannah reached up with all her might, stretching as far as she could until finally Dean grabbed onto her wrist. Anxious for solid ground, she tugged at the curtain, hoping to help give him leverage, but instead, it tore loose in her hand leaving her swinging precariously in his hold._

_Dean cried out at the sudden shift in weight._

_The blood on Hannah's arm was making it difficult to hang on and she slipped from his hold down to her wrist. Her screams wrenched his soul as she dangled and swung below. Fat raindrops began pelting them as the sky opened up and loosed its fury on them. Hannah's round, terrified eyes fastened on Dean's._

"_Dean, please help me. Don't let me fall."_

"_I've gotcha, I've gotcha. Hannah, try to stay still, I need for you to stay still."_

_Her delicate hand grasped his, her beautiful face turned up to the rain. He could see the marks on her skin and clothing where the shotgun blast hit her and had to swallow the guilt of knowing he had caused that. Blood ran from her cuts, staining her clothes crimson—and maybe that was his fault, too. He had to help her, but he didn't know what to do. If he tried to pull her in, he was afraid the extra tug of gravity would jerk her out of his grasp. If he didn't do something soon, she was going to slowly slip away from him anyway. His hand had already gone numb and the blood-rain combination left their skin slippery. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He had to make a decision. Quick._

_Hooking his knees under the sill, he tentatively let go of the window ledge and started to reach down with the other hand. He lurched forward and tried to grab her wrist, but had to abort the action to stop his own fall._

"_Dean!" she screamed. Tears were mixing with the rain and her chin trembled._

"_You're gonna have to reach up with the other arm. I can't pull you in unless you hang on with both hands."_

"_I don't think I can."_

"_You have to try. Please, I need you to do this. Now, Hannah, now!"_

_Biting her lip, she swung her arm up, fingertips brushing his knuckles as her other hand pulled loose, sending her wide-eyed and screaming away from him._

"_NOOO!" Dean howled. "Hannah!"_

_Horrified, he watched as her body crashed onto the pavement below, twisting in unnatural ways that reminded him of a child's rag doll. Sickened, he pushed away from the window and swallowed hard._

"_No. God, no!" he cried softly. _

_He sat with his head cradled in his hands, fighting to regain control. Dean wiped the rain, and perhaps a few tears, away from his eyes. How could this be happening? It's not supposed to end this way, he thought. This isn't real. It can't be. It just can't. His whole body shook uncontrollably as a strange sense of numbness enveloped him. Reality setting in and hunter's instinct taking over. Remembering the bones and ghost, he soon saw why it had ceased its attack. It was busy trying to pull the sack and its contents through the door, which wasn't working out so well._

_Dean's face flushed with anger and he pushed himself up. Rock salt scattered into the door, followed by the enraged shriek of the spirit. He grabbed the bones as he ran by and hoped he could remember the way out. _

_Later, after the bones were burned, the apparition dispatched and all things traceable to him cleaned or stowed in the trunk, he got in the car and drove. With no purpose or will, he just drove. That he found himself sitting in the Impala staring up at Sam's apartment was not entirely by accident. Since he'd left San Jose, he'd imagined a thousand different ways to explain what had happened. All of them ending badly with an enraged Sam hating him forever. _

_Sam would hate him for this. After everything that had happened, he knew Sam would never forgive him. Even from a distance, Dean was tainting his brother's new life with their old one. Hannah's death was clearly his fault. He fired the shot that knocked her out the window. He had failed to hang onto her. And, he should never have involved her in the first place. Maybe if he hadn't been quite so lonely, so needing to be close to Sam, things would be different. Maybe if he had resisted his attraction to her. If only he hadn't spent the last week getting close to Hannah and letting her get close to him. A million ifs and no do overs._

_After all this time and this is how he reunited with his brother? As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it to Sam. He couldn't do it period. Let Sam believe it was an accident, let him have his new life intact and untarnished. Dean had made sure everything looked like a failed robbery. Cleaned the place of any trace of what had really gone down. Left Hannah lying where she was – he couldn't bear to look at her anyway – letting the rain wash the evidence from her body. Yeah, he was done screwing everything to hell here, time to move on. Pulling away from the curb, he drove into the night vowing to protect Sam by staying away._

"I couldn't hang on to her, Sam," Dean's voice broke on his brother's name. "I'm sorry. I tried, I tried so hard…but she's dead because of _me_."

Sam had gone rigidly still next to his brother. His jaw muscle clenched and he tore his stricken eyes away from Dean's white-washed face to stare straight ahead.

"Who was she, Dean?"

"What?"

"Her name, Dean. What was her name?" Sam ground out quietly.

Dean's chin quivered and a tear slipped quietly down his cheek as held up his hands and said, "Hannah, it was Hannah."

In a flash Sam was on his feet, staring down at his brother.

"And the place, Dean? What was the name of the place?"

It was as if Sam couldn't quite believe what he already knew. Didn't want to believe what Dean was telling him.

"The Winchester Mystery House – fifteen minutes from Palo Alto."

No longer able to deny it, Sam turned his back on his brother.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

The words were barely audible. Dean found himself holding his breath, waiting for the penance to come. The silence—unbearable. When Sam didn't turn around or walk away, Dean used the bed to bring himself to his feet.

He tapped Sam's elbow, pleading, "Say somethin', man."

Sam wrenched away from Dean, spinning to face him.

"NO! You don't say anything, right now. You don't _get_ to say _anything_."

Sam paced the room.

"I can't believe you. I can't believe you've kept this from me all this time. How could you _do_ that, Dean?"

Sam leaned into Dean's face as he shouted.

"Hannah was Jess's _best_ friend, Dean! She was _my_ friend – a good person. Why was she even involved in this?"

"You're right. She shouldn't have been involved. I screwed up and she's dead because of it."

Dean wobbled weakly on his legs but faced the wrath he knew his brother had a right to.

"What was it, man? You think she'd make a good lay…is that it? You took one look at her and decided to play hero so she'd sleep with you? Or were you punishing me for not being there, huh? Which is it?"

At his brother's accusations, Dean felt his face drain further. Sam's words hit him hard and stung more deeply than he could've imagined. Did his brother really think so poorly of him?

Struggling to find his voice, Dean yelped, "Sam, it wasn't like that. Yes, we went out a few times, but it was never like _that_. I swear. And I would _never_ do that to you."

Dean reached out to touch Sam's arm again.

"No," he jerked away, "I can't. I can't do this now. I've gotta-I can't be here right now."

Sam strode to the table, snagged the keys and headed for the door.

"Sam, wait." Dean crossed the floor faster than he should've been able to. "Please, man, don't do this. Take a swing at me if it'll make you feel better."

Sam stopped his brother's advancement, holding up a hand. He jerked the door open and was gone with a slam. The room shook and the whole scene was reminiscent of another such exit years ago. Except their dad had been the cause of that leaving, that getting _away_ from.

Dean sunk to the floor and banged his head against the door. Low, deep keening broke loose – teeth gritted against the pained animal sound he could no longer contain. Sam was gone – and maybe he wasn't coming back. The worst part was, Dean didn't blame him one bit.

"That's right, Dean. Sammy's gone and he won't be coming back."

A pale, twisted version of Hannah lay sprawled out on Sam's bed, casual and unaffected. She looked at her nails as if bored. Blood covered most of her body, some of it from the fall and some of it cuts from the mirror shards. Her neck bent at an odd angle as did several other body parts. Dean's stomach roiled in repulsion. He could still see where he'd hit her with the rock salt.

"You've finally driven the last good thing in your life away. But, then, you deserve it, right? You killed any right to happiness when you killed me."

"Stop it!" he roared. "You're not her!"

Looking over at Dean, she put her arm down and asked, "Did you salt and burn my body, Dean? No? Then how can you be sure? It's me, all right - present in the rotting flesh. Thanks to you, of course."

When he turned away and refused to look at her, she crawled off the bed and straddled Dean's lap.

"You know. You have the power to end this. You could make all the pain and misery go away."

Dean pressed his lips together and swallowed a retort.

"Come on, Dean. It's for the best. Best for you, best for Sam – cause you're gonna get him killed, too," she crooned sweetly. "If you don't do this, the demon is going to take you over, kill Sam and ensure that you have nothing left to live for. Why do that to your brother, huh?"

"Suicide is a coward's way out," he grit. "We'll find another way."

She leaned closer and smiled, "That's assuming Sammy boy comes back. It takes two to perform the black magic ritual…and, it could get you both as dead as me."

Dean met her cold eyes, no longer the warm, sensual brown he remembered.

Face full of anger, he spat, "You're not even _real_."

"No?"

She laid both hands on either side of his neck and the flesh began to sizzle. Dean grimaced and sucked in his breath. He tugged at her wrists, ignoring the immediate pain that caused, desperate to get her hands off him. Finally, he cried out, and satisfied, she let go.

"Why are doing this?" he gasped, tucking his burned hands under his arms and rocking forward. What do you want?"

All pretences dropped as she growled, "What do _I_ want, Dean? What do _I_ want? It's a little_ late_ for what _I_ want. None of this is about what I want—this about what_ it_ wants. And what _it_ wants is your death by your own hand."

"Why not just kill me?" Dean asked.

"Well, that'd just be too easy. Death by guilt, by suicide, that's how this game is played. It's the only way the demon can complete its cycle. So, why don't we just get this over with? It's not like you don't have a variety of methods available to you."

She gestured around the room with one slim hand, fingers gnarled and twisted by the fall she'd taken. A hand that had once rested tenderly on his cheek.

"No, not until I know there's no way other way. There could still be a way without involving Sam."

Growing impatient, she grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the door.

"Aren't you listening to me? Didn't you hear what I just said? He'll kill Sam if that's what it takes to push you over the edge. How long are you willing to gamble with Sam's life? You're supposed to protect him, Dean. It's your _job_."

Shoving her away, he yelled, "Don't freakin' tell me what my job is!" His eyes drilled into hers as his teeth ground together. Breaking eye contact, he whispered, "I know what I have to do."

Dean pulled himself up and stumbled across the room. He gathered his things and threw them into his duffel bag, stopping occasionally to catch himself and allow the dizziness to pass. Minutes later, he was out the door and silently sneaking into a parked car one room down. Peeling out of the lot and onto the highway, he didn't have any idea where he was going; just knowing he had to put distance between him and his brother. To keep him safe until he could figure this out. Saving him by leaving.

Arms crossed over her chest, Hannah watched the red taillights disappear down the highway with a pleased smile. Her features melted away leaving the Culpa Moh behind, its green eyes glowing eerily in the dark.

TBC

A/N#2: Information about the Winchester Mystery House was taken from http://www(DOT)prairieghosts(DOT)com/winchester(DOT)html and http://www(DOT)winchestermysteryhouse(DOT)com. Keep in mind that I may have perpetuated a few fallacies to suit the story and my purposes. I hope you all have enjoyed this chapter and leave me a little feedback on your way out. To those that have stuck with me, I love you all. To those that continue to review, I couldn't keep this going without your kind comments. To Mady and Tidia, all my thanks for all of your guidance and for letting me yammer on and on until I'm satisfied with what I have. If my appreciation was pay, you both would be rich ladies!


	10. Chapter 10: It's Easier to Run

Chapter 10: It's Easier to Run

_**"Easier To Run"  
by Linkin Park  
**  
It's easier to run  
Replacing this pain with something numb  
It's so much easier to go  
Than face all this pain here all alone_

_Something has been taken from deep inside of me  
The secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see  
Wounds so deep they never show they never go away  
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they've played  
_

_If I could change I would, take back the pain I would  
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would  
If I could stand up and take the blame I would  
If I could take all the shame to the grave I would  
If I could change I would, take back the pain I would  
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would  
If I could stand up and take the blame I would  
I would take all my shame to the grave_

_Chorus:__  
It's easier to run  
Replacing this pain with something numb  
It's so much easier to go  
Than face all this pain here all alone_

_Sometimes I remember the darkness of my past  
Bringing back these memories I wish I didn't have  
Sometimes I think of letting go and never looking back  
And never moving forward so there'd never be a past_

_If I could change I would, take back the pain I would  
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would  
If I could stand up and take the blame I would  
If I could take all the shame to the grave I would  
If I could change I would, take back the pain I would  
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would  
If I could stand up and take the blame I would  
I would take all my shame to the grave_

_Just washing it aside  
All of the helplessness inside  
Pretending I don't feel misplaced  
It's so much simpler than change_

_Repeat chorus_

* * *

Fifteen minutes into his drive, Sam found himself pulling over to the side of the road. He was just outside the next town, the soft glow of lights already visible. His hands shook and a vein running along his temple throbbed thickly with each heartbeat. The brunt of his anger had worn off and he was just now questioning the wisdom of his flight. Dragging a hand through his hair, he blew out a long, forceful sigh. What was he doing? Where did he think he was going? The only home he had ever known was waiting behind him in a crappy motel. Dean. His brother. The man who would sacrifice anything for him – had already sacrificed so much for him. Images of his brother's stricken face battered his pride and drained his will to stay angry. 

"_Sam, wait. Please, man, don't do this. Take a swing at me if it'll make you feel better."_

Recalling the desolation reflected in Dean's eyes, Sam winced inwardly. He'd looked so vulnerable and beaten. He had done that to Dean. Guilt had barely taken hold when anger bloomed once again. Anger and shock. Shock that Dean had been involved in his friend's death and anger at the long kept secret. Dean had no right to keep this from him. All this time together, all the things they had shared with each other and still his brother was keeping important secrets. Why? Why would he do that?

"_And what if I tell you and…you leave?" _

With a groan, Sam buried his face in his hands. Anger dissolved into full-fledged guilt. That's exactly why Dean had done it.

"I'm such an _ass_hole," he muttered aloud.

Pulling a U-turn on the barren highway, Sam hit the accelerator and headed back the way he'd come. Back to Dean. Back home. As the Impala cruised smoothly down the darkened road, he began to worry. When he'd left, Dean's pallor had rivaled top-quality copy paper and he'd looked ready to topple over at the slightest misstep. What would Sam find when he got back? Visions of Dean passed out on the floor with more damage done to his brother's already battered body tormented him. He pressed harder on the pedal and didn't dare glance at the speedometer.

"Damn it, Sam," he railed, slamming a palm against the steering wheel. "What were you thinking? Good job, by the way. He finally lays himself bare and you go off and do exactly what he was most afraid of. He'll never trust you again. You blew that to hell and back."

Seeing the motel up ahead, Sam's heart lurched painfully. His throat tightened against the knot lodged there and sweat broke out along his upper lip. What would he say to Dean? What _could_ he say that would erase the heated, careless words?

"_What was it, man? You think she'd make a good lay…is that it? You took one look at her and decided to play hero so she'd sleep with you? Or were you punishing me for not being there, huh? Which is it?" _

"_Sam, it wasn't like that. Yes, we went out a few times, but it was never like that. I swear. And I would never do that to you."_

His and Dean's words echoed to him. Something about the way his brother had looked – had sounded – niggled at Sam. Had his brother actually _cared_ about Hannah? He put the car in park and cut the engine, eyes glued to the darkened window.

"Huh."

Dean surely hadn't gone to bed…not after all that. Why are the lights off? What other reason…Sam's stomach dropped. Fumbling to pocket the keys, he hastily exited the car and half-jogged to the motel door.

"Dean?" he called, still digging in his pant's pocket for the room key.

Using a fist, he banged loudly on the door.

"Open up, man!"

He jammed the key into the lock and pushed the door in.

"Dean?" he called, as he flicked on the light.

His heart failed for a second. The room was empty. Running to check both sides of the beds and the bathroom, Sam found no sign of his brother. His breathing picked up as he scanned the room and noted Dean's duffle, meds and other formerly strewn-about things were missing. Both hands fisted in his hair and he circled around hoping a second look would tell him something new. Panic didn't even begin to describe the freak out Sam was approaching.

"Oh, n-n-n-no, this isn't happening. What do I do, what do I do?" he whispered, his brain scrambling for a plan.

He'd only been gone a half hour. How far could Dean have gotten? Maybe he could still catch up to him? His phone. He'd call him. Sam gnawed his thumbnail as he listened to the ringing filling his ear.

"Come on, man. Pick up. Please, Dean, pick up, pick up, _pick_ _up_."

He froze in place when he heard, "Hey, this is Dean. You know what to do." Beep.

"Damn it, Dean!" he yelled.

Throwing his own stuff together, Sam fought the tears threatening to break loose.

"You'd better be okay when I find you, jerk, or I'm gonna kill you myself."

For the second time that evening, Sam slammed out the door, jumped into the Impala and slung gravel every which way as he sped after his wayward brother.

Hours later found the sun peeking over the horizon, spilling its warmth across the landscape, but no Dean. Sam didn't know what else to do. He didn't know which way his brother had gone or in what car. Finally, he'd been forced to pull into a service station for gas. Out of ideas, he pulled his phone out again and punched Bobby's number with unsteady fingers.

"This is Bobby, what can I do for ya?" came the tinny voice.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Sam – have you heard from Dean?"

"No. What's going on, Sam? I thought Dean was with you?"

Sam gripped the phone tighter and blurt, "Bobby, something's happened and I need your help. Dean's gone and I don't know how to find him."

"Gone!? Why would Dean-"

"Look…I really don't want to get into it on the phone." Desperation filled his voice as he pleaded, "Can…can you just please help me find him?"

"Okay. All right, Sam. It's gonna be okay. We'll find your brother. Give me your locale and I'll meet you there."

Relieved, Sam gave Bobby what he needed and hoped to God Dean was sleeping it off somewhere safe and would call soon.

oooOOOooo

Lying curled on his side in a motel just over the California border, Dean stared at his phone laying silent in its place on the tiny table next to him. He hadn't turned it on since he'd left the motel he'd shared with Sam and now he was afraid of what he'd find if he did. A message from Sam would mean his brother had gone back to the motel and found him missing and would be worried. No messages would mean he'd kept on driving.

Sooner or later he was going to have to turn it on. He needed to make some calls, see if anyone knew how to help him. Maybe give Bobby another try. But to make a call would mean facing his fear of what would be on the phone or not, as the case might be. And, he would have to uncover his ears, let the chiding voice of _her_ fill his head.

He couldn't get rid of her and couldn't shut out her voice. He was in agony and slowly going insane. Sometimes she was content to taunt him with whatever weakness she somehow knew he possessed. Other times, she'd put her hands on him, burning his skin raw where ever her touch lingered. She was no longer deterred by salt or any protective trick he tried. Eventually, he'd given up and just accepted that she wasn't going anywhere.

Dean didn't know how much more of this he could take. Images of Sam's outraged face lingered before his eyes. The betrayal his brother felt had been written on his features plain as day. It cut Dean to the core. The anger and accusation in his brother's voice had dug deep beneath his layers of protection. He'd failed Sam. He'd failed Daniel and Hannah. He seemed to have a talent for it and he could easily see why he always ended up alone. The only thing he could do for Sam now was stay away until this was over.

God. He was tired. So tired of carrying this burden, so tired of paying for his mistakes, so tired of hurting. He wished he could sleep if only for a little while, escape the helplessness inside…just be numb for a while. But, every time he slept, he'd dream of Hannah. Dean would see her trusting eyes; feel her warm hand slipping away. Sometimes she'd morph into Daniel, sometimes Sam. He'd be forced to remember all the dark places in his past. Sometimes the dreams wouldn't stop when he awoke, but play on in the light of day. Though he knew Sam was better off without him – safer – he couldn't help but wish for his presence.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered, "Sam, help me."

oooOOOooo

Before Bobby reached the motel door, Sam had appeared from behind it, looking frantic and worn in the bright morning sun.

"Man, I'm so glad to see you. Thanks for coming down, Bobby."

Clapping the young man on the back, Bobby said, "No problem, Sam. You mind if we go grab a cup of coffee while you fill me in. You look like you could use it and I know I could."

Fifteen minutes later, Bobby was wrapping his fingers around the hot cup of fresh brew and peering at Sam from under his ratty ball cap.

"Listen, uh, Sam – Dean called me just a few minutes before I got here."

"What?! Dean _called_ you? Bobby, what did he say?"

Sam's eyes were wide and worried. It tore at Bobby's heart in a way that didn't happen very often to the old hunter. The incredible bond between the brothers was something rare and precious. John's boys had earned a permanent place in his heart and he hated seeing them go through this.

Taking a sip of the hot coffee and setting it aside, he met Sam's eyes and said, "He wanted to know if I'd found another way to kill the Culpa Moh – asked some questions about the black magic ritual I told you about…and then told me to tell you not to look for him."

Grimacing, Sam's hands fisted and he bowed his head for a few minutes.

"He didn't sound good, Sam. He kept shouting at someone in the room with him, but I couldn't hear anyone else but him. Then he told me to tell you he was sorry and he doesn't expect you to forgive him. Said for you to not look for him because he was a danger to you, that he couldn't control it."

Sam rubbed his tired eyes and said, "God, Bobby. I really screwed up. This is my fault…"

The look on Sam's face tugged at his heart. It was almost as desolate as Dean's voice on the other end of the phone. Whatever had happened between the two must've been pretty ugly. Sighing, Bobby took off his cap, smoothed his hair and settled back, ready to get down to business.

"All right, Sam. Tell me what happened."

Sam spilled it all, left nothing out. He told Bobby about the Culpa Moh taking Dean over and choking him, about the creature tipping him off to his brother's guilty secret and then his brilliant plan for getting Dean drunk enough to make a slip about the secret. How he had goaded his brother into talking about Hannah and everything that had happened. When he got to the part where he'd shouted at Dean and then walked out, he couldn't look the other man in the eyes anymore. His guilt was too strong and new. Once he'd finished, he finally forced himself to meet Bobby's patient gaze. Instead of condemnation, he found understanding.

"Sam, you couldn't have known what Dean would do. Your brother has never been one to run away from a problem in his life. It's just this damn demon screwing with his head. It's got him running scared – he's convinced that it'll use you to get what it wants."

Thunder clouds in his eyes, Sam said, "It's using me to get him alone, to poison his mind into doing what it wants." Looking out the window, he whispered, "We've gotta find him, Bobby. We've gotta find him before it's too late."

oooOOOooo

Clicking the phone off, Dean tossed it onto the other bed. He couldn't help getting a room with two twins. It was calming even if Sam wasn't there…this way he could pretend. Rubbing his hands across his face and over his head, he slumped forward in defeat. That was it. The last contact he had to call. No one knew of anyway to help him. Most had never even heard of the creature. Apparently, Bobby's ritual was the only way to end this nightmare and that was just too much of a risk for Sam. One mistake, one wrong move, and his brother could end up dead. Their dad had taught them to be very careful to avoid black magic, said it was an unpredictable danger that rarely worked out the way it should or without consequences.

It had been four days since he'd left and he was no closer to having the answers he needed. Four days of listening to a mangled, dead chick tempting him with a more final and permanent solution. Four long days of sleepless nights and a steady diet of liquor. He tried to eat, but he couldn't keep much down and really had no interest in food anyway. His body was growing weaker along with his mind and his will.

Hallucinations had kept him company these last two days. It was confusing and he couldn't keep track of what was real and what wasn't anymore. And, the longer he listened to Hannah, the more sense she made. Dean was no longer upset by her constant companionship, but almost comforted by it. It was better than listening to her screams in his nightmares. Better than being alone.

Hannah leaned against him and purred, "How much longer is this gonna go on, Dean?"

Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he didn't bother to answer. He took another swallow of whiskey and resumed staring at the phone. Disgusted, she slid off the bed and stretched out across the other twin, the phone just inches from her stomach.

Pouting, she said, "Boy, you're just no fun anymore. Still thinking 'bout calling Sammy? Well, go ahead, do it. Call him, bring him here. I won't even say I told you so when you wrap your fingers around his throat and choke the life out of him."

Voice rough, he clipped, "Sam's smarter than that. He'll be ready this time."

"Yeah? You sure about that, Dean? Willing to bet Sam's life on it?" she asked, all smug confidence. "Suppose you're right and Sam can protect himself from you, what then, huh? The only way to make this end is for you to die or to do the ritual. How stupid do you think that creature is? You think it's just gonna walk right into such an obvious trap? And suppose the magic works, you think taking it down won't result in someone's death?"

Dean pushed himself off the bed, but it was too fast and his hand flew out to catch himself on the table as his head spun in circles.

"Look at you, man. You can't even take care of yourself, much less your brother. Come on, Dean. Don't let Sam down. You know what you have to do."

When he didn't answer, she called out, "Hey, where you going?"

"Out."

Walking across the room, Dean stumbled out of the room into the crisp night air. Funny how such scorching hot days could give way to chilly evenings in this part of the country. He shivered against it and started walking. He'd ditched the car he'd taken as a precaution and now it was time to find a new one.

oooOOOooo

Six days. It had been six days Dean had been missing. With each passing hour, Sam's stomach knotted a little tighter, his nerves stretched a little farther. He didn't know how much more of this he could take without exploding on someone. He had an awful urge to beat something. Really hard. Earlier that morning, he'd had to apologize to Bobby for snapping at him. But Bobby seemed to take all in stride. Sam didn't know what he'd have done without him there to help follow leads and provide a steady diet of support. They took turns canvassing the area, Sam in the Impala and Bobby in his truck but there was just so much land to cover. On the fourth day, a motel manager along Route 10 had recognized Dean's picture, but that was it, their only lead. Sam was getting desperate. Most of the other victims didn't last past a week's time and his brother had been fighting against it for almost two now.

Jumping when someone pounded – or, rather, kicked the door – Sam was up and opening it in two strides. Bobby, both hands occupied with food and drinks, tried to shuffle past him.

"Here, let me get that," he offered, taking the tray of drinks. "Ellen called while you were gone. She's says she heard from Dean a couple of days ago – asking the same questions he asked you, but that's it. That and he sounded pretty shaken up."

Setting the food on the table, Bobby turned, saying, "Almost a full week of nothing but that damn demon whispering in his ear is enough to rattle any man's cage."

Nodding his head, Sam clenched his teeth against the pain the realty of the situation brought. As his frustration mounted, so did his desire to tear this creature apart.

"I've been thinking. Dean's been heading west, toward California, you don't think he-" Sam paused, licked his lips and continued, "you don't think he's headed for San Jose, do you?"

"Well, I guess anything's possible, Sam." Then, catching a look at his young friend, asked, "Hey, you all right? You look a little pale." Bobby's concerned eyes locked on Sam's face.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so. Head's just been pounding since you left."

Eyebrows rising, Bobby asked, "Didn't you say you get headaches before your visions?"

"Not usually prolonged like this. Normally they hit pretty fast. Ahh!"

Sam pinched his forehead and bent forward.

"Sam?"

"Bobby, I-"

Sam gasped again as he lost his normal eyesight to the blinding light washing over and through him. He felt strong arms supporting him to the floor as the first images came.

_A quick flash of a motel sign, then Dean entering a door with the number five. Fast forward, Dean's flipping his phone shut and, in a moment of rage, smashes it against the far wall. Flash to Dean hunkered in the corner of a run-down room, leaning against the wall – his arms wrapped tightly around himself, knees to chest. He's shivering._

"_Sam," he whispers brokenly. A close flash of his haggard face betrays the anguish and hopelessness taking over. _

_Now he's sitting on the edge of a bed, a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting loosely in his hand and his Desert Eagle lying beside his hip. Behind him, cooing soft words in his ear is a grotesque, twisted version of Hannah. Dean's shoulders are slumped and his head hung low. A week's beard growth covers his face and he looks gaunter than before. Blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes leak slow, fat tears that trail idly down both cheeks and get lost in the brown-blonde stubble. Picking up the gun, he pulls back the hammer and rests it on his thigh. Taking a long pull from the whiskey, he swallows and swipes at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. _

"_I'm sorry, Sam," he croaks. "Forgive me."_

_Swiftly pulling the gun up to his head, Dean squeezes the trigger – sending bits of brain, blood and hair flying out the other side of his head and all over the wall. Falling back, his green eyes flash and then dull. As the last tear slides carelessly into his bloody hair line, Hannah sits back laughing. _

_But, not Hannah. Her features morph and change until suddenly a great black beast replaces her, emerald eyes glowing and cat-like. Its head flies back and it catches Dean's soul as it flees his body, sucking it down with greedy pleasure. Then the creature twitches and flexes, growing larger and larger until it's twice its original size. Splitting straight down the middle, it leaves behind two smaller sized creatures instead of one._

Jerked back to reality, Sam is met with Bobby's worried face peering down into his. His chest heaves with pants and he pushes past Bobby to the bathroom. Falling to his knees in an exact imitation of Dean nearly a week ago, his body retches repeatedly until his stomach is empty. Still shaking from the memories, Sam makes his way back to his bed and sinks down on it. It's all he can do to keep from breaking down in front of his friend.

"Sam, you okay?"

He can only shake his head weakly and swallow.

"What did you see? Was it Dean?" Bobby hates to press, but they're losing time.

Somehow, Sam manages to say, "Yeah." Then, he turns watery eyes up to the other man and continues, "He's gonna kill himself, Bobby. I saw Dean kill himself."

He pauses as the emotions well and get stuck in his throat. Taking a place beside him, Bobby rests a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll find him, Sam. Did you see anything that could help us?"

Sniffing loudly, he remembers the hotel sign and the room number. "Uh, yeah." Shooting to his feet, he grabs his laptop and pecks at the keys as he continues, "Yeah. He's at the Night Owl, room number five." It takes only a minute or so before the needed information appears on the screen.

Bobby's leaning over his shoulder, saying, "That's quite a drive."

Sam couldn't help smirk a little. "Yeah, but if we start now, we can be there late tonight."

The other man doesn't bother to ask if Sam's up to driving, only nods and helps gather what they might need to take along.

Hours later, Bobby snores softly beside Sam while the Impala eats up the miles separating them from Dean. His vision replays in his head in a loop. Each frame moving through his mind torments him relentlessly. He can't get the image of his brother paralyzed with hopelessness in the corner of that room out of his head. Dean's eyes had been empty and lost. All the usual Dean-like fire gone, smothered by guilt. Sam will never forgive himself if they don't get there in time to stop it all from happening. There are too many things left unsaid between them.

Shaking his head clear, he rolls down the window and lets the cool night air spill into the car. Breathing it in, he sighs and chases the thoughts away. His time is better spent thinking ahead. Even if they make it to the motel in time, how will he convince Dean to let them do the ritual? How can he help his brother forgive himself? Sam wishes he could take his words to Dean back. Wishes he could make it all right for him. He doesn't want to see his brother suffer anymore.

"What's on your mind, Sam?"

Bobby's voice startles him and he jumps.

"I though you were asleep," he smiles.

"I was. Now I'm not. What's on your mind?"

"I was just thinking about Dean. About what he's going through right now…the things I said to him. Bobby, if he dies, those will be the last words between us. Man, he deserves better than that."

"Did you mean it?" Bobby asks.

"Of course not. I was just angry, surprised…confused. But Dean doesn't know that."

"C'mon, Sam. Who's taken care of you your whole life? Is this the first time you've said things – hurtful things – to your brother?"

He thinks about that for a minute.

"Well, of course not, but-"

"But nothing. Once we kill that thing and your brother gets back to himself, he'll realize you didn't mean any of it. Dean never could stay mad at you anyway."

Nodding, Sam concedes the point.

"So…you think he's mad at me."

Scoffing, Bobby says, "No. He's probably hurt, probably blaming himself more than he should – but I doubt he's angry with you."

"He should be. I pushed him into telling me. Told him nothing could make me leave and then when he does confide in me, I do the one thing I promised I wouldn't. How do I make up for that?"

"But you didn't leave him, Sam. You came right back."

"Yeah, well, Dean doesn't know that," Sam says on a sigh. "That's why we gotta find him, Bobby. He has to know…"

The sentence hangs unfinished, but Bobby nods, knowing what Sam is trying to say. Both men fall silent, lost in their own private thoughts. The miles bleed together as does the landscape and finally Sam allows the other man to take over.

He didn't think he could sleep, but is surprised when Bobby reaches over to shake him awake.

"Sam, we're here. Motel should be a mile or two up ahead."

His stomach flip-flops as he pushes himself up in the seat. His heart feels like it might burst right out of his chest. Anxiety triggers a flood of endorphins and he has to wipe sweaty palms on his jean-clad thighs. Unbidden, the picture of Dean lying in a circle of blood springs to mind. _Oh God,_ he's thinking, _please, please let us be in time._

Spotting the motel, Bobby pulls in and barely gets stopped before Sam is springing from the car. Running like his own life depends on it, Sam quickly finds room five and doesn't bother to see if it's locked. Kicking it in effortlessly, he screams just as Dean is bringing the gun to his temple.

"NOOO!"

The boom from the powerful revolver shatters the night air along with Sam's cry.

TBC

* * *

AN: Yes, another evil cliffie...forgive me? Well, you had to know it was gonna end there, right? Such a perfect spot. Anyhoo, I hope you've all made up with Sam and wanted to snuggle him in this chapter. He needs it about right now...volunteers? And, remember, he loves his Dean. On that note, don't worry about Dean, I'm taking personal care of him myself :). 

To every single person who read and reviewed, my most heartfelt thanks. I sit and clap happily when I see those reviews coming, so never think I don't look forward to them.

Mady and Tidia, you gorgeous ladies, thanks a million. You're both AWESOME.


	11. Chapter 11: Deliberate Intentions

Chapter 11: Deliberate Intentions

"_Sam will die if you don't give it what it wants. You have to make a choice, Dean. So, what's it gonna be? You or Sam?"_

The words continued to tumble through Dean's muddled brain. An inner voice of self-preservation tried to argue against the logic of what he was about to do, but the image of Sam kneeling and begging to be saved made it easy to ignore. He was no longer able to tell the difference between fantasy and the real world – and that scared him. Truth be told, he didn't want to listen anymore. He just wanted it to be over. He just wanted to make it all _stop_.

Images of Sam limp in his arms had raged against his psyche mercilessly for days now. Screams of those he'd failed to help haunted him until the pounding in his head became unbearable. Weak, tired and suffering, he hadn't ventured far from the bed at all in the last 36 hours. Before that, he'd barely had the strength to make it to the liquor store a block down the road.

The tremors in his hands increased to the point he feared being unable to make a clean shot. No way did he want to risk surviving with brain damage. Picking the gun up, he let the cool weight of the weapon comfort him. Though not a particularly practical weapon in a fight, his Desert Eagle would be perfect for this job. Cocking it wasn't necessary, being an automatic, but it would give less time for second thoughts and take less strength to fire. Hammer pulled back, he rested the gun in his lap as he took one last swig from the near empty bottle of Jack. His thoughts turned to Sam. He felt the crushing weight of responsibility owed to his brother.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "Forgive me."

Drawing the gun up and pressing it firmly to his skull, Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the impending explosion of gunpowder and flash. Immediately before the world went black, he heard a crash and the sound of his name shouted in wild desperation.

oooOOOooo

Kicking in the door, Sam saw the silver glint of the Desert Eagle level with Dean's temple. As he yelled his brother's name, he felt an explosion of invisible power burst outward from him, forcing the gun away from his brother's head – but not in time to keep the bullet from grazing Dean's temple.

"Dean!"

Sam was in motion before his brother fell backwards onto the bed. Grabbing the gun from Dean's hand, he dropped it to the floor and roughly pulled his brother up by his shirtfront.

"Dean! Oh, no!" he half whimpered, half shouted.

There wasn't enough time to check his brother's pulse before a piercing shriek split the air. The creature in Hannah's form howled in outrage as it shed the human disguise. A good seven feet tall, the black-winged demon towered over the two men.

"You stupid boy! He's mine, he's mine! I _will_ have him."

Wide-eyed, Bobby sprang through the open door and angled toward the brothers, a strangled expletive dropping from his lips. Bringing his shotgun up, he filled the menacing beast full of consecrated iron, forcing it against the wall. It shook its head then charged toward the door, taking flight as it cleared the wooden frame.

Gathering Dean into his arms, Sam tried to shake his silent brother awake. Blood already pooling and spilling down Dean's face made a startling contrast against his whitewashed skin. He looked dead. Sam placed two fingers over his brother's carotid artery and felt the sure beat of Dean's heart contracting rhythmically.

"Thank God. Hey, man, wake up. Dean, please."

Trying to shut out Sam's soft pleas, Bobby used the mustard colored blanket on the bed to clear away the blood so he could check the wound. Several inches long, the gash was deep, but he didn't think it was bad enough to be life threatening. As with most head wounds, however, blood was everywhere, coating everything.

"Sam, listen. It's not as bad as it looks, he's gonna be all right. But, we've gotta get out of here, before someone calls the cops. You hearing me?"

Pale and terrified, Sam licked his lips and nodded. Bobby dashed to the bathroom and grabbed a large, clean towel from the guest rack, careful to keep it folded.

"Here, hold this to the wound and keep it tight. Let's get him to the car."

Looping his arm under Dean so he could lift him and keep pressure on the towel, Sam said, "I've got him, Bobby. Just grab his duffel and let's go."

He didn't wait for Bobby's nod, just clutched Dean close – head pressed against his shoulder – and hooked his other arm under his brother's knees. Lifting his sibling was easier than expected, heightening his worry as he ran for the car. Crawling into the backseat, Sam drew his brother in with him, Bobby hot on their heels. He allowed himself a moment to gather his wits as they pulled onto the highway.

Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths. He could feel warmth spreading beneath his fingertips as blood filled the towel, but he could also feel the steady thump of Dean's heart fluttering against his fist as it twisted in his brother's shirt. His brother was alive. He was hurt, but alive. Lifting his head, he pressed it against Dean's. Alarmed by the heat he felt there, he let go of the shirt to feel first Dean's forehead, then his cheeks and neck.

"Bobby, he's burning up. He's too hot."

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Bobby caught Sam's eyes, saw the boy's fear and offered what comfort he could.

"Just hold on, I'll have us back at the motel in no time. We're not gonna lose him, Sam. We won't. Okay?"

Breaking eye contact, Sam looked out the window and jerked his head in a short nod. His features etched with worry and lined with doubt, he couldn't look at the other man.

Reading the expression true, Bobby asked, "You want to risk a hospital?"

He could see Sam turning it over in his mind, desperately wanting to do just that but aware of what could happen. It was an unfair burden, so Bobby changed tactics.

"Look, Sam, let's just get him to the motel and see what we can do. Once we get the bleeding stopped, we can manage the head wound on our own and we can work on his fever." Compromising, Bobby continued, "If he gets worse, we'll take him to the hospital. Okay?"

Watery eyes crawled back to Bobby's, this time accompanied by a half-hearted smile.

"Thanks, Bobby."

Sam centered fully on his brother. Completely out, Dean sagged against him, one arm tucked between them and the seat, the other hanging over Sam's – palm down. The smell of blood, sweat and liquor filled the cab of the car, making a sickeningly toxic combination that turned Sam's stomach to acid. Adrenaline coursed through his body, gearing everything into overdrive. He could feel the perspiration running down his neck and his jeans sticking to his legs. Where Dean's fevered body lay against him, the fabric became soaked in sweat and blood. Unbidden in the darkness, an image of the gun pressed to his brother's head and then blood, so much blood, filled his vision. Air – he needed air.

He cracked the window open and let the soft, cooling desert wind wash over his and Dean's bodies in a reprieving rush. Caught in the breeze, some of Dean's short, spiky strands tickled Sam's nose where it lay buried atop his brother's head. Sam nuzzled deeper into it and allowed himself to be grateful. It'd been close. Too close. Whether it was from relief or fear, Sam couldn't say, but he couldn't stop the welling emotion as it secretly slipped from his eyes into his brother's hair.

"You hang on, man," Sam whispered into Dean's ear. "We're gonna get you fixed up. You're gonna be fine, Dean. You have to be. If you fight, we'll fight with you."

Nothing more to be said, he listened to his brother's breathing and heartbeat, tried matching both of his to Dean's – adding his strength to his brother's.

If he'd thought the trip to get Dean was long, the trip back to the motel was excruciatingly double. When the motel – with Bobby's truck standing guard out front – finally appeared, it was a welcome sight. Once parked, Sam refused Bobby's help and brought Dean in the same way he'd carried him to the car. He eased his brother onto the bed furthest from the door while Bobby dug into a stash of candles, bowls and herbs – using them along with ritualistic prayers to set protective wards and elementals in all four corners of the small space.

Sam filled the room's ice bucket with water, grabbed their med kit and planted himself at Dean's head. Pulling back the blood-heavy towel, he began cleaning away as much of the sticky stuff as he could. Enough time had passed for the bleeding to slow a little and he got a good look at the deep groove left behind. A few centimeters deeper and a hospital trip wouldn't have been avoidable. A second later and his vision would've been fact. This was the second time he'd saved his brother from certain death thanks to telekinetic powers. It made him feel creepy and largely uneasy, but also very thankful.

Quickly, he cleaned the wound with peroxide, applied a thick layer of gauze and wove a couple of bandages around Dean's head to hold the compress in place. Head wound cared for, it was time to find the source of his brother's fever. Cutting away the sodden, once-gray t-shirt from Dean's body, he froze at what he saw. A dozen or more wide, pink stripes – some looking like palm prints – covered his brother's neck and torso, mixing with and blotting out the old bruising. Burns where the creature had touched him, tortured him.

Lifting his gaze to his brother's face, he breathed, "God, Dean."

Shifting his eyes back down, they fell on the shoulder wound. Clearly, it was infected. A two to three inch, angry red ring circled the puncture hole perfectly. The shirt had stuck to the viscous fluid weeping from it and pulled the skin when Sam peeled the fabric away.

Nose wrinkled and lips pulled tight, Sam felt a pit settle in his stomach. He hated what he knew had to be done. Locating their stash of holy water, he doused the open hole and burn marks. When nothing happened, he switched it for the peroxide. As soon as the antiseptic hit his skin, Dean's face screwed up and his breathing hitched. His body jerked as Sam continued to pour and a low, weak groan parted his lips.

Coming up behind Sam, Bobby winced at the multiple burns and injuries.

"Damn." Then seeing the wound, said, "You're gonna have to cauterize that."

Sam looked from the wound to Bobby's face and back again. He already knew it was going to be necessary, but something inside wanted to resist.

"Infection's already set in, Sam. The only way to heal it is to cauterize it and use antibiotics. Go ahead and clean it out with that, but we'll have to find a heat source and a blade."

Nodding, Sam said, "Yeah…yeah. Okay. We've got knives we can use, but what do we use for heat?"

"Let me check the truck. I might have a propane torch with me."

Sam finished clearing the crusty pus and still weeping infection away. Rifling through their duffels, he found a long, flat blade that looked up to the task. Bobby came back just as he was settling on the bed, his hip pressed into Dean's.

Waving the cylindrical torch in the air triumphantly, Bobby said, "Had one half-full."

He watched as the older man lit the torch and adjusted the flame. Then, he handed him the knife and watched as Bobby passed the weapon through the fire.

"One of us will have to hold him down," Bobby said. "You want to do it or me?"

Though seasoned by hard work, Sam knew Bobby didn't have his same weight advantage. It had to be him.

"I'll hold him down," he clipped.

"You sure?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah. I got him."

Sam pushed his brother forward and eased under him. Then, slipping an arm around Dean's waist, he pulled them both back against the headboard. With his brother's head resting on his shoulder opposite of Bobby, he firmly grasped Dean's arms and held them tightly in place.

Bobby anchored the affected shoulder with his left hand and held the knife in the other. "Ready?"

Sam met the gaze of their friend. Mutual dread reflected back at him. Nodding his head, he ground out, "Do it."

Without hesitation, Bobby placed the white-hot knife against Dean's skin. Immediately, Dean bucked and jerked away from the searing pain, hissing through his teeth. Sam held fast and tried to ignore the husky moans coming from his brother as well as the smell of burning flesh. Dean's head continued to pivot against Sam's shoulder even after the knife had been removed.

"Okay, Sam. I'm gonna have to do it again to cover the entire site."

Sweat dripped off Sam's nose and bangs but he didn't speak, just prepared for the next round. This time, his brother's head reared back as he arched up off the bed – digging sharply into Sam's flesh. A strangled yell erupted from deep within Dean's throat before Bobby withdrew the blade. As Sam watched his brother's chest rising and falling in heavy pants, he realized he'd been holding his breath and released it in a whoosh.

"That should do it." The older man wiped his brow on his arm.

Setting the weapon aside, Bobby snatched the antibiotic cream from the kit and slathered a generous portion over the singed skin. The only thing left to do was apply fresh dressings. A sheen of perspiration covered Dean's face and small sounds of agony slipped out with each ragged breath. Neither man showed it, but both were sickened by the sound of Dean's distress.

"Now," Bobby said calmly, "let's work on that fever."

He turned and disappeared into the bathroom for the last of the towels. Coming out, he tossed them near Dean's legs and then grabbed the small bucket of water and headed for the door. Once outside, he slumped back against the wall and examined his shaking hands. Bobby would keep it together for Sam's sake, but out there alone, he allowed himself to react.

Wiping a rough hand over his face and whiskers, he mumbled, "Damn it, John. This should be you doing this, not me. Hope to God I never have to do that again."

Shakily, he pushed away from the building and dumped the dirty water out. Then, he went looking for the ice machine.

Inside, Sam hadn't moved from his position under his brother. He'd used the top sheet to mop Dean's forehead and neck and was trying not panic over the heat rippling off his brother in waves. Delirious, Dean began mumbling sporadically – not really conscious in the true sense of the word.

"Sam," he panted, then softer, "Sammy."

"Yeah, man. I'm right here."

"She s-said…I had to…"

A long pause punctuated the other man's labored breathing.

"Had to what, Dean?"

"Not safe, n-not safe," he whispered, then turned his head toward Sam's neck.

"It's okay, Dean. We're safe here."

"No…no. I'm not… not safe. Might…hurt you."

Hot indignant rage poured through Sam as his suspicions were confirmed by his own brother's mouth.

"No, Dean," he began, "Don't listen to it. You won't hurt me."

A sharp tremor rocked Dean's body, followed by another. A whimper and then he moaned, "S-sorry, Sammy. Failed you, failed Hannah. F-failed Daniel."

"Dean, listen to me-"

"Stop!" Dean grunted, cutting Sam off. "No…no—don't!"

He began to struggle, but a five year old would've been more of a challenge. Sam didn't know what to do, how to reach his brother, and he felt himself close to a breaking point. It dug at him not knowing what was going through the other man's tormented mind.

"Dean, nothing's here. It's just you and me. I promise we're safe," he said, his heart ballooning with an incredible ache.

Dean moaned gutturally, but quieted. Now lying in his brother's lap rather than leaning against his chest, Dean's face was visible to Sam. Deep grooves pulled his brows tight beneath the snowy bandage.

"S-so tired. Tired of fighting. Over…want t-to rest. Can't do this…can't... It hurts..."

"Try to relax, man. You don't have to do anything. Just rest."

"No…can't. Have to save the baby, have to save Sammy."

Sam's ears burned hot and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he blinked away tears he couldn't allow. Dean wouldn't want him to hear these things, but he didn't know how to make it stop. Listening to his brother's pained rambles felt like betrayal. Using his thumb, he quickly rubbed away sweat that had gathered above Dean's eyes.

"Shh, it'll be fine, Dean. The baby is safe. You did good."

That seemed to satisfy him a little and he sighed. He was slowly drifting away and Sam wasn't sure how to feel about it. Almost relieved felt wrong, but he really didn't want to hear anymore of his brother's private thoughts.

"C-cold, m'cold," Dean murmured. His shivering intensified as if proving his point.

"I know, Dean. I know, but we've gotta get you cooled down."

"Sam…please…"

"What, Dean? What is it?"

But his brother said no more. Sam searched his face in the following quiet, looking for an answer to the question. Now and then, Dean's lips would twitch with unspoken words and his brows would furrow more deeply. It tore at Sam's heart that he couldn't take the pain or nightmares away. His brother looked hollow in the poor lighting and smudges of dried blood clung to his right sideburn. A bright red stain marred the stark white of the bandage covering his wound. The sight of it brought forth the images from Sam's vision that he was trying so hard to forget.

"No," Sam whispered, willing the scene away. He didn't want to remember what Dean dying looked like.

Fingering his brother's stubbled cheek, he forced himself to concentrate on the present. Dean visibly shook now, and Sam could feel the mini quakes transferring into him. Though frighteningly pallid, the apples of his brother's cheeks were flushed with bright fever spots. Deep shadows made ghostly half-moons under his dark lashes and his lips were parched a shade lighter than normal_. Too thin,_ Sam kept thinking_. His face – his body – looks too thin. _Sam's jaw ticked with barely controlled anger, both at himself and at the creature that'd done this to Dean. He ground his teeth, but kept his hands relaxed where they rested on his brother. This thing was going to pay. He'd make sure of that.

The door opened and Bobby reappeared with the bucket of ice, looking like he'd just been thinking the same thing. Sam decided right there he never wanted to find himself on the wrong side of Bobby Singer. Ever. The older man disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of ice being dumped into the sink was followed by a short stream of water from the tap. Coming back out, Bobby set the bucket filled with water and a few ice cubes on the floor and began soaking the towels one after another.

He wrung out first one and handed it to Sam. "We'll drape these on his body and then I'll go to see if we can get more towels in case we need 'em. You got any pain relievers?"

Reaching for the next cloth, Sam answered, "Yeah. Dean's got some Percocets in his duffle."

Bobby's eyebrows raised a little, but he said nothing. "When we get finished with this, see if you can get him conscious long enough to take a couple."

"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed.

"Go ahead and cut off his pants, too. We'll cover as much of his body with these as we can."

Easing out from under Dean, Sam reached into his pocket for his knife. "He's gonna kill me." Sam smiled nervously. "These are his favorite pants."

"Given the circumstances, I don't think he'll mind."

Shredded jeans discarded on the floor, they resumed covering Dean in the cooling towels. When Bobby placed the first one on Dean's leg, his head twitched to the left. After Sam placed the next on the opposite leg, his arm swung off the bed, towel slipping to the floor. Little by little, he surfaced through the shock and pain, his teeth chattering along with his shivering body.

"S-saam?" he choked out and moved as if to sit up.

Pressing down on his good shoulder, Sam soothed, "Hey, hey. Take it easy. Just stay still."

Heavy eyelids stuttered open, then drooped half-mast over glassy eyes.

"Wha-" he rasped, "what happened?"

Rejoining them, Bobby handed Sam a glass of water and two white pills.

Sam moved his hand from Dean's shoulder to his chest. "It's okay—everything's okay. Listen to me, Dean. I need you to take these pills, all right?" When he didn't get a response, he tapped his brother's cheeks lightly and commanded sharply, "Dean. Dean, open your eyes."

Eyes rolling with effort, he tried to comply, blinking up at Sam for a second then letting them fall shut again.

"Focus, man. I need you to take these pills, okay?"

Responding to his brother's voice, Dean weakly pushed against the bed, trying to sit up again. Bobby helped him into a sitting position, supporting Dean's body with his own. Sam handed over the pills and helped steady the glass as his brother sipped the tepid water. The pills down, he tried to take a second drink but choked and spat most of it back out. Beads of water stuck to his beard while others trailed down his neck.

"All right, okay, slowly," Sam cooed, wiping the liquid away with one of the damp towels.

Exhausted, Dean let his head fall back against Bobby's shoulder and pushed the glass away.

"Why's it s'cold?"

"You've got a fever and we're trying to get it down. Just hang in there a while longer, okay?"

Bobby gently eased him back down and reapplied the towels. Eyes beginning to droop, Dean took notice of his friend for the first time.

"Bobby? That you?"

"Yeah, Dean. It's me."

"What're you d-doing here?"

Bobby patted his arm. "Thought maybe you boys could use a little help." He glanced at Sam who nodded.

"Yeah, Bobby and I have everything under control. You just rest, okay?"

Confusion plain on his features, Dean lifted a trembling hand to his head. "My head's k-killing me."

"You had a little accident, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"Doesn't feel s'little," he slurred.

"I bet not." Sam forced a reassuring smile."But, hey, chicks dig scars, right?"

Dean's hand fell away from his head and landed next to Sam's still resting on his chest. Neither man bothered to break the contact. Though he worked hard to keep his eyes open, every blink seemed impossible to recover from and they stayed closed a little longer each time.

"Don't fight it, Dean. You need to sleep now. Everything's gonna be fine, big brother." Sam's voice was soothing, comforting and reassuring in tone.

His lips worked to say something more, but incomprehensible grunts were all Dean managed to make before his eyes slid shut and he finally slept. Blowing out a huff of air, Sam squeezed his temple and drew his hand over his face.

Clapping the young man's shoulder as he stood to leave, Bobby gruffly asked, "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just…hard, ya know?"

Head dipping, Bobby said, "Yeah." After a pause, he cleared his throat and continued, "I'm gonna go see if we can get some more towels. You need anything?"

"Coffee?" Sam answered hopefully.

"Sounds good. It's gonna be a long night. Be back in a little."

"Hey, Bobby?"

Stopping in his tracks, Bobby turned – face open to the question.

"How long do you think those protection wards will hold?"

The other man sighed. "Long enough to get him through the worst of this. Long enough to come up with a plan."

Chin jutting out, Sam blinked then nodded. After Bobby left, he slid off the bed down to the floor, head falling close to his brother's. He was drained, worried and furious. Dean was hurting, had been broken down by this thing, and all they had to their advantage was time. But at least they had been given that much. Despite his brother's fevered shivering and distressed breathing, Sam found himself comforted by Dean's presence. Together, he knew, they could get through anything.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Much thanks and bowing down to the betas, Mady and Tidia, who are wise and ever-patient. Big love to all who read and reviewed both this time and last…apologies to anyone I might have missed responding to. I was overwhelmed by the great response and really did try to hurry with this. 

I did tweak a little after I got this back from the betas, and as I go to post it, I do so knowing my brain is only half-awake. Please forgive any mistakes my addled brain may have made. Hope you enjoyed this last installment and I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Note: Looks like the bots are down again, but wanted you to know that I'm still reading your comments as they come in through my stats. So don't worry that I won't see them ;).


	12. Chapter 12: Delirium in the Night

Chapter 12: Delirium in the Night

Sam removed the towels covering Dean's limbs and chest, dipped each one into the icy water, wrung it out and then spread each one back into place. As he worked, he watched Dean's brows pull together, then smooth. Satisfied the immediate situation was under control, he carefully unwound the dressing from Dean's head. Blood had soaked through much of the gauze and was still oozing from the long, ragged gash – indicating the need for stitches. Studying his brother's features briefly, he picked up a threaded needle and pulled Dean's chin toward him.

With each tug of the thread, he half expected Dean to cry out, but his brother continued to lie perfectly silent beneath his deft workings. Sam sighed with relief when he made the last suture and tied it off. With that done, he knew there wasn't much more he could do for Dean, but be near. Without his larger than life charm in full force, it was funny how small and ordinary his brother looked. And, by ordinary, Sam clarified, he meant in terms of susceptible to human frailties, because Dean was anything _but_ ordinary.

But that was the thing, wasn't it? Dean made it easy to forget his humanity, the sameness shared by all. Just like anyone, he had fears, insecurities, and doubts. Deeply buried and denied, but there all the same. He was inclined to fiercely protect those soft spots, making it even more difficult to undo the harm done. Sam wasn't sure how to even begin; he only knew that as soon as Dean was healthy enough, he had to try.

Sitting with one foot on the floor, opposite thigh nestled into Dean's side, Sam settled into a weary daze. Close to sleep, he lost a few moments of time. The rustle of his brother's head against the pillow barely penetrated the fog, but when Dean's eyes suddenly snapped open, he found himself ready and alert. Focusing on Dean, his instincts tingled with warning. His brother stared at the ceiling, the whites of his eyes showing and his breathing picking up. Sam didn't know what to make of it, but knew it was important. A sudden loud thump against the door shot him to his feet and tripped his heart's metered pattern. Intuitively, he knew it wasn't Bobby at the door. Somehow, Dean knew it, too.

Laying a hand on his brother's shoulder, Sam gentled, "Easy, Dean. I've got it."

But Dean's eyes never wavered from the ceiling, nor did his panting ease. Padding lightly toward his duffle, keeping his back away from the door, Sam reached down and eased the shotgun filled with consecrated iron out of the bag. With Bobby's wards in place, it was unlikely the creature could physically enter the room, but good hunters prepare for all possibilities. Bringing the gun to a salute at his waist, Sam waited, eyes dancing between Dean and the door. Even as he watched Dean swallow thickly, he knew his brother wasn't truly awake, but somehow attuned to the intruder lurking beyond just the same.

Sharp talons raked across the window and Sam jumped, nearly firing the gun out of reflex. But it was only playing with them and he knew better than to waste ammo. Several uneventful moments lapsed and he had begun to relax when its shrill voice laughed in female tones.

Quickly, Sam put himself between Dean and the threat.

"Oh, Sammy," he clearly heard, "how sweet is that? Dean's faithful watchdog. How long do you think you can keep him from me?"

Sam didn't bother to respond. He tightened his grip on the gun and breathed through his nose, steadying himself the way their dad had taught him.

"Don't you want to play with me? We used to have good times, didn't we, Sammy?"

He growled, "You're not Hannah. You're _evil_."

A deep-throated laugh, more sickening than mirthful, came from the direction of the door. At least when it spoke this time, it didn't use _her_ voice.

"Evil? I'm older than evil, Sam Winchester. I'm evil's great granddaddy. Until now, you and your brother have been playing children's games."

Sam's lips curled in a snarl. "I won't let you touch my brother again." Then his voice dropped an octave lower as he continued, "I'm gonna tear you apart for what you've done to him."

"Tough talk from one barely out of diapers. You think you know me? You don't know anything."

"We'll see what I know soon enough," Sam threw back.

"Ooh, this one thinks he's tough and smart. But there's one little thing I bet you _didn't _know. One small problem Bobby Singer couldn't find in his books."

Nervously, Sam glanced behind him at Dean. "You think I'll lose control, or worse, accidentally trap myself with you. That what you're talking about?"

"Actually, no. Though both scenarios are welcome possibilities. No, I'm talking about something that involves Dean directly."

The first hooks of dread dug into Sam's chest, a heavy heart of knowing before he asked the question. "What're you talking about?"

Claws clinked against glass and Sam visualized the creature pressing itself close to the curtained window straight across from him.

"I'm talking about how Dean and I are already connected," the demon's voice purred. "You came too late. He came close enough to death by his own hand. Close enough to allow me a piece of his soul. If you try to banish me, you'll kill him. I'll drag him kicking and screaming right along with me."

Nervously licking his lips, Sam drawled, "I don't believe you."

"Yeah, you're right, I could be lying. How about a demonstration?"

Muscles bunched tightly and senses heightened, Sam moved closer to Dean. Looking down, he stiffened at the sight of his brother's eyes. That same eerie glow he'd glimpsed in Dean's eyes that first night swirled again in his brother's normally hazel depths, a thick vapor catching fire. With a strength not his own, Dean was out of bed and headed toward the door before Sam had finished processing the shift of advantage. Realizing what was about to happen, he threw himself in between Dean and the door—one hand full of weapon and the other pressing against his brother's chest.

"No, Dean! Stop."

Almost as if surprised to find Sam in front of him, Dean shook his head rapidly and whispered hoarsely, "Sammy?"

Outside the flapping of wings beating against air was followed by the rumble of an engine and tires screaming against pavement. Instantly, Dean's eyes lost their luminosity and fluttered shut just as his knees gave way. Sam's arm snaked around him just in time to keep his brother from crashing to the floor, Dean's head falling against his chest. Sam barely had time to wrap his other arm around his brother, hand still full of shotgun, when Bobby came bounding in, face filled with concern.

"Bobby! Thank God."

"You all right?" Bobby fired.

"Yeah, I think so. Give me a hand?"

Coming up behind Dean, Bobby took Sam's gun and set it on the nearby table before taking the unconscious man into his arms. Sam hefted his brother's legs up and they carried Dean back to his bed. Sinking down beside his brother, Sam pulled a shaky hand across his face and watched Bobby checking his brother's condition. Bobby pressed a hand against Dean's neck and then shook his head, cursing.

"He's burning up. Here, Sam, help me wrap some ice into the towels and pack them under his armpits and inner thighs."

Instantly off the bed, Sam did as he was told, taking the towels and filling each one with ice and then delivering them to Bobby. When he'd finished, Bobby stood to leave.

"I'll go get some more of these."

"Got it."

Unaware of what was going on, but his body reacting to the frigid additions, Dean began to stir. Legs jerked fitfully and hands reached for the source of his discomfort. He began to shiver more violently than before—his teeth chattering noisily. Sam brushed his brother's hands away from the towels and tried to soothe him the best he could.

"Dean, relax. I know it's cold, but you've got to leave them there."

His brother's eyelids fluttered lightly but didn't open.

"Mm—Sam?"

Barely recognizable, the weak moan drifted up and wrapped around Sam's heart.

Grasping his brother's shoulder, Sam squeezed it. "I'm right here, Dean."

"S-sam…" Biting off the rest of the sentence, Dean winced and reached a quaking hand for his head.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam asked, pushing his brother back against the pillows.

Dean sucked in a hiss then gasped, "I can see her—ahhhh!"

He cried out and his fingers dug into his scalp before Sam could stop him.

"Dean, please!" Sam gripped Dean's forearms and tried to pull his hands away. "See who?"

"Hannaahh..."

Meant to be a frantic call, the whispered name came out a tortured groan. Dean's pants came quick and heavy and he refused to lower his arms.

"It's not real. Are you listening? It's just the fever, that's all. She's. Not. Real."

"Hurts," Dean choked out, curling up tighter on himself. Holding his breath against whatever agony burned inside. Slowly, he began to rock his body in an attempt at comfort. It reminded Sam of his vision and the memory stung sharply.

Taking advantage of the situation, Sam scooted beneath his brother, pulling him to his chest and entwining his arms around Dean's. His brother's usual earthy scent was overpowered by the odor of sickness, fever and sweat.

"Shhh…it'll be okay. Just hang in there, man. It'll pass soon, I promise." Sam began rocking, too. "Come on, try to breathe through it. You can't keep holding your breath. Come on, Dean, at least try."

Sam could feel the tension cording his brother's muscles and the heat radiating off his too hot body. Dean wasn't sweating and he knew that was bad. He needed to get the ice packs back in place…and where the hell was Bobby? Finally, Dean took one long, gulp of air. Sam could feel his brother's teeth gnashing against each other with the effort to regain control. Jaw muscles ticked in time with the grinding. One hand wrapped painfully around Sam's wrist.

"Don't let go…p-please," Dean cried. "Hang on, I've gotcha. God, no!"

The plea shook Sam inside and he shivered along with his brother. The desolate need laid bare in Dean's voice came crashed into him. He knew the words weren't meant for him, but he felt their impact. Biting his lip, he blinked furiously.

"No!" Dean cried out with a jerk. Then he sobbed, "I lost her. I lost her. How could I lose her? How could I do that? She trusted me." Grunting, Dean tried to double over, only his brother's strong embrace keeping him from it.

"It wasn't your fault, Dean. It wasn't. Don't do this to yourself. Please."

Dean shook his head, ranting, "No. Should've held on tighter. Shouldn't have…shouldn't have involved her. Let myself believe... She tr-trusted me."

"Stop it, Dean. That's what the demon wants. It wants you to feel guilty. Don't let it win."

A whimper slipped from his brother's trembling lips and Sam thought he heard him say, "Sammy will never forgive me." Dean's shoulders hitched. "I'm sorry…sorry."

Sam swallowed back the bile scalding his throat and steadied his voice with quiet strength. "You're wrong, Dean. I _do_ forgive you." He huffed a bitter smile, "There's nothing to forgive. I don't blame you. Understand?"

He drew away from Dean to look at him, but couldn't find any sign his words had penetrated. His brother's sallow face remained screwed up against the memories, the battle playing across his features. Gently, he hugged Dean close and resumed the rocking, trying to keep it rhythmic. Though he'd never held his brother in this manner before, he found it familiar—maybe something from childhood. Had Dean held and rocked him like this as a child? The idea of it seemed right.

After a minute or two, Dean relaxed against him by small degrees. His brother's arms came away from his head, folding against his stomach protectively. The innocent gesture struck a chord within Sam. He felt anger for what was being done to his brother.

Lips thinned to a line, Sam vowed, "I'm gonna get you out of this, Dean. I promise. Somehow, I _will_ beat this."

Still delirious, Dean croaked, "Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"What's happening to me?" Almost childlike, the hushed question left Sam cold – then moss-colored eyes stripped him to the bone.

"I don't know, Dean. But, just trust me, okay? I'm gonna make it right."

"Can't. She's gone…and the boy. I lost 'em both."

Dean's voice kept cracking as he spoke, But Sam didn't know if it was from emotion, pain or weakness.

"There was nothing you could do," Sam assured. "We can't save everyone."

"But I should've—"

Sam's chin rested against Dean's hair, but he pulled away to peer into his brother's face. "Should have what, Dean? Should've been super-human? Should've died instead? You've gotta let this go, man. You did the best you could."

Sam felt tiny chills tripping through his brother from head to toe—different from the hard-core chilling of before. He wondered if that was a good sign. Body compliant, Dean started to slump loosely in Sam's arms.

"Have to save you, Sammy. Keep you safe."

"You will. You are."

Feebly, Dean resisted, shaking his head. "I can hear their voices."

"Who's? Hannah's? Daniel's?"

His brother nodded. "And yours. You're dying, Sammy. Begging me…to save you."

Stifling an inner groan, Sam pressed Dean's head tight to his heart. He hoped the steady lub dub would calm his brother, link him to reality.

"It's not me, Dean. I'm here and I'm safe. Don't listen to it."

With a shudder, Dean whispered, "I can hear the baby crying. Sammy needs me."

"God, Dean." _I don't wanna hear anymore. Please, pass out or something, I can't stand to hear anymore. _

Dean's voice faded as he said, "Gonna die because of me…just like Dad. Just like Dad."

Sam felt drops of wetness soaking through his shirt and didn't want to think about that. "Please, Dean. Don't," Sam cried, begged. "Just don't. I need you to stop."

"Okay, Sammy. Don't cry. I'm here. Shh…"

His brother quivered, let out a low, throaty sound but said no more. Sam knew it wasn't fair to make such a request, but he couldn't bear to hear the horror of his brother's dreams. He'd always wondered if Dean had nightmares, but now he knew some things he was better off not knowing.

In the following quiet, he listened to Dean's labored breaths. His heaving chest would halt with each new image, then switch to light pants and grunts when they passed. This, coupled with the tremors that constantly bled through their physical contact, tugged at Sam's heart. He laid his cheek atop Dean's fevered head and concentrated on the motion of their bodies. When Bobby walked in, Sam was still swaying back and forth – Dean propped against his chest and Sam's arms tightly wrapped about his shoulders.

"How's he doing?"

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Sam didn't bother to hide his misery. He eased his sleeping brother back to the pillows, carefully supporting his head, and repositioned the packs. Dean's head lolled toward him, but other than an occasional shudder, he made no other attempt to move or speak. Sam's fingers lingered at his brother's chest. Giving it a soft thump, he stood, brushed at his cheek and sniffed.

"Here," Bobby tossed the fresh set of towels to Sam, "let's get these soaked and on him."

Snagging one of the makeshift ice packs, Sam said, "These are water-logged. They're soaking through to the bed."

Ignoring the unsteady quality in Sam's voice, Bobby replied, "Yeah, I figured as much. Here, I fished these out of the truck." Bobby held up white plastic shopping bags with black print on them. "We can make water-proof ice packs with 'em."

A wobbly smile danced across Sam's lips. "Is there anything you _don't_ have in your truck?"

"What can I say," Bobby winked at him, "sometimes it pays to be slob."

As the two men worked, continually swabbing Dean's body, Dean found his voice again – but not like before, mostly wounded sounds and disjointed words. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam cast nervous glances at Bobby, wondering what was running through the other man's mind as they listened to the incoherent ramblings. Outside a somber seriousness pulling his face taut, Bobby seemed not to take notice. It took teamwork, another trip for ice and two more ice packs before the fever ebbed enough to allow real sleep to descend and quiet Dean's delirium.

The crises at bay once again, Bobby drew the conversation back to the beginning by asking, "Sam, what in hell's name happened?"

"A demonstration." Sam laughed humorlessly. Then sobering, he continued, "We've got a problem."

Bobby said nothing, but propped hands to hips and waited for Sam to go on.

"Somehow, that thing has some sort of connection to Dean. He was going to go to it. If you hadn't come when you did…"

The sentenced dropped away.

"If I hadn't come when I did, you'd have found a way to keep him safe, Sam. Give yourself some credit."

Rubbing the whiskers at his jaw, Bobby narrowed his eyes.

"You sure Dean was going _to_ it?"

Sam scoffed. "Yeah, pretty sure. He got up and was headed for the door."

"But, Sam, your brother is too weak to be walking anywhere…and no way could the demon take possession of him while the wards are in place. It doesn't make sense."

"I don't know, Bobby. I just know what I saw and I _saw_ Dean get out of bed and walk toward the door." Sam fidgeted nervously. "It said it has a piece of Dean's soul."

Taking a seat on the corner of the other bed, Bobby asked, "Did it say anything else?"

Shrugging, Sam answered, "It said it was older than evil itself. Said that Dean had come close enough to suicide to allow it a hold on him and that if we kill it…it'll take Dean with it. Is that even possible?"

Reluctance made Bobby hesitate."Well I suppose anything is possible."

Eyebrows high, the corners of his mouth pulled down, Sam asked, "Bobby, what're we gonna do?"

"We stick with the plan. It's still the best chance we have of saving your brother."

"And what if we end up _killing_ him trying to save him?"

Sam's voice was shrill with fright, causing Dean to stir restlessly beside him.

"Look, this is the only thing we have. If we don't do this, it gets him anyway, one way or another." Bobby broke off, his face twisted in concentration. "Maybe we can set a protection spell around Dean before banishing the demon." Rising, he went on, "let me get my books and our coffees and we'll see what we can find, okay?"

"Okay, yeah." Sam's gaze fell to Dean.

Bobby hovered, then insisted, "We'll figure this out, Sam."

"I know." Sam smiled weakly, but his stormy eyes shone with sadness.

Fifty minutes later and both men were immersed in dusty volumes of the Magick Arts – cold coffees in hand. Using a forefinger and a thumb to dig at his gritty eyes, Sam blew out a heavy breath and turned his head to check on Dean. His brother hadn't so much as twitched since they'd removed the towels and packs. He didn't like seeing him still like that. Dean always knew how to alleviate the tension and keep the energy going, usually leading the research by asking questions. It seemed wrong that he wasn't an involved participant. Fixating on Dean's still form, Sam jumped when Bobby spoke.

"Sam, I need The 21 Spells of Domesius." When Sam hesitated, hand in mid-air, Bobby clarified, "The small, black one with the fancy spine."

He handed the book over and watched Bobby's features morph as he read and compared his findings with another leather-bound book.

"Find something?" Sam asked. Hope and curiosity warred inwardly.

"Maybe…hang on a sec."

Drawing himself up, Sam waited with baited breath as Bobby's worn fingers flipped through the pages, paused, and then began flipping again. Suddenly, Bobby stopped and squinted at the words. Nodding his head, he poked at the print and looked back to Sam.

"I think we can use The Witches' Bottle to isolate the demon from Dean."

"Wait…the what?"

"The Witches Bottle—it's a protection spell that binds the power of evil and keeps it from doing any harm."

Sam gestured with his hand, saying, "I thought it couldn't leave the circle once we cast it and summon it forth—isn't it already bound by that?"

"Well, yeah, but just because it can't leave the circle doesn't mean it won't still have use of its powers. See, if we bind it, then it won't have any control or connections to anything…at least that's what I'm hoping. This should sever the link to Dean just long enough."

Cocking his head to the side, Sam's eyes narrowed. "Should? How sure are you this will work?"

"Look, Sam, I can't be a 100 about anything, but I see no reason for it not to work."

Standing, Sam began to pace as he thought the plan through.

"So, we cast a circle and summon the demon. Then, we use a bottle spell to take away its powers and, if that holds, we perform the banishing spell."

"Something like that." Bobby's head dipped in confirmation. He studied Sam, then said, "You know, Sam, when it comes time, we'll need to make sure your brother is secure."

"Whatta ya mean…like, tie him up?" Eyes widened at the thought.

One brow going up, Bobby answered, "We don't want a repeat performance of awhile ago. Even though the demon will be bound, I don't want to take any chances. We'll have our hands full enough as it is."

Sam looked over at Dean. A flash of memory and he remembered Dean's hands around his throat, followed quickly by the image of his brother getting out of bed intent on giving himself to the demon.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Head bowing, bangs fanning across his forehead, he continued quietly, "We've got a set of handcuffs." Then he raised his head. "That work?"

"Yeah, that ought to do it. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Not your fault, Bobby. You're right. We can't be worried about what he's gonna do while we're in the middle of it. I just hope this works."

"It will. Why don't you get some rest? I can watch your brother and check out a couple more things, maybe come up with a backup."

Sam couldn't keep from letting his gaze skitter to Dean worriedly. "I don't know if I could sleep right now."

"You're beat, even I can see that. If Dean needs you, I'll wake you up, okay? Please, son, get some rest while you can."

His face betrayed him with a huge yawn and he could no longer deny his body's need for sleep.

"All right." Sam scooted his chair back and stood. "But not too long, Bobby. You've been up nearly as long as I have."

"You got it," Bobby said. He had no intention of waking Sam until it was absolutely necessary, but the boy didn't need to know that. The younger man already had deep grooves under his eyes and looked dead on his feet. Bobby watch him pull back the covers and flop onto the waiting mattress.

Sam had barely turned over, facing Dean, before soft snores drifted through the room. Appraising the two brothers left in his charge, Bobby felt a deep fondness for each stir in his gut. The Winchester boys were the closest thing he had to family these days. And, he couldn't be prouder than if they'd been his own. For all John's mistakes, somehow, something right had been done to raise such men as these.

Bobby rose and walked over to the beds. Coming to Sam first, he pulled off his boots and covered his young friend. Patting him on the shoulder, Bobby moved away to check on Dean. Temperature somewhat controlled, he had begun to sweat. Perspiration dampened the edges of his hair and blanketed his face in a light gloss. Dean's lips pressed together and released, then he frowned. Bobby was about to lay the back of his hand against his cheek when Dean shivered. Finding a blanket in the small closet, Bobby fluffed it out over Dean and then felt the still hot, but clammy skin of his friend's face. Brushing a hand lightly over the boy's hair, he wondered what John would do if he were here.

Pulling his hand away, he pushed the thought aside. Sweating was a good sign, so Bobby went back to the hard-backed chair and bent over the books lying open on the table. Despite his reassurances to Sam, he wasn't as confident as he'd like to be. Wishing for another cup of coffee, he sighed and focused red-rimmed eyes on the too small print.

oooOOOooo

Several pages later found Bobby Singer drooping much too close to the pages for reading – his mouth agape. Muted sounds of rustling fabric and soft murmurs teased his brain alert. Working his dry mouth and blinking, he sat up and looked around. The sky beyond the curtains had changed from pitch black to deep indigo. The sun still hid, but lurked near. Off to his left, Sam had rolled to his stomach, one arm tucked under him and the other behind—legs akimbo. Deep REM sleep made his eyes roll around under his lids and his snores had intensified. Even further to the left, Dean dreamed, too, his body alive with agitated movement. Hearing Dean's thrashing, Bobby swore softly—kicking his chair back.

The boy was drenched in sweat, the cotton sheets sticking to his body and rivulets running down his face and neck. Mopping some of the moisture away, Bobby leaned over him—hand cupping Dean's jaw line. Stuttered words tumbled one over another and then one single question left the older man frozen, heart in his throat. Bobby shifted closer, listening. Green eyes flitted open to probe blue-gray ones, not really seeing, not comprehending the signals being sent to his foggy brain.

"Dad?"

Bobby's stomach dropped and he hesitated.

"No, Dean. It's Bobby."

Dean's blinked, his face wrinkled in confusion. "Where's Dad?" he asked, voice rough.

Bobby choked on his stiffened tongue. "You don't remember?"

"Remember?"

The look on Dean's face nearly destroyed what little control Bobby had left. Momentarily turning away as he sat on the bed, he tried to compose his response.

"Your daddy's gone, Dean. Been gone awhile now."

"Gone?" Dean repeated dully. Remembrance dawned and like the flicker of an old silent movie, fear and grief chased each other across his features. Breathlessly, he jammed his eyes closed and kneaded the cloth beneath his fingers. A whirlwind of memories stormed through his mind and he was falling.

Bobby could feel Dean's heart race beneath his palm lying over the boy's chest.

"Dean, you okay?" Bobby's voice rose in pitch along with his concern.

Dean swallowed convulsively, turning all shades of green before he forced out, "Gonna be sick."

Bobby grabbed a nearby trashcan and rolled Dean onto his side in one fluid motion. Dean retched, mostly hitting the trashcan but managing to get a little on the bed and floor. His body continued to purge itself even though sour bile was all that came up, followed by wracking dry heaves. Tears streaked down his cheeks by the time he finished and his head flopped onto his outstretched arm—too weak to keep it up any longer. Bobby rubbed and patted at Dean's shoulder, trying to console.

Awakened by the commotion, Sam pushed himself up and yawned. Then he placed his fingers under his nostrils as the putrid smell of sickness filled the air. Before he had his bearings, Bobby's voice rang out.

"Sam, give me hand."

Sam stumbled over complaining, "What _is_ that?" Then seeing the yellow-green mess coating the sheets and floor, muttered, "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.' We're gonna have to switch beds so I can clean this up."

Looking mortified and wretched, Dean mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Glancing at his brother, Sam realized Dean was responding to them and the environment. Recognition lit his brother's eyes and he looked fully in the present.

"Nonsense. Nothing to apologize for," Bobby was saying as he threw their used towels across the mess. "At least your fever broke."

Helping Dean up, Sam said, "I'm surprised you didn't blow sooner, dude. You've been pretty sick." Assessing Dean's appearance, he added, "And looks like you're not out of the woods yet."

Dean's fingers curled around Sam's forearms to keep himself from toppling backwards. He kept avoiding eye contact, something that didn't go unnoticed. Though they only had a short distance from bed to bed, Sam could see his brother was in no condition to try it. Talking nonchalantly to put Dean at ease, he hooked an arm under his brother's bare knees and wrapped the other around his back—lifting him easily from the bed and carrying him the three or four steps to the other. Dean didn't even protest, causing Sam to frown. He missed his cocksure brother and wanted him back.

Pulling the covers up over Dean's legs, Sam paused when their gazes locked. His brother's brows pulled low as he looked away, sheltering the emotion hidden inside. Defensive posturing at its best. What had reflected in those passing seconds looked an awful lot like shame. Did his brother remember everything or just parts? Sam patted Dean on the knee before turning to help Bobby undress the other bed and stow the dirty linens. Everything cleaned up, including Dean, Bobby filled a glass of water and handed it to Sam.

"See if you can get him to drink this. I'm hittin' the shower."

Seated next to Dean, Sam looked around the room. He was searching for the right things to say to break the tension between them. Dean kept his head averted, arms folded across his stomach, as he leaned against the pillows supporting him.

"You rest?"

The sound of his brother's scratchy voice surprised Sam, forcing his head up.

"Uh, yeah. Bobby let me catch some sleep while he finished researching."

Dean's parched lips moved, but Sam answered before the words came. In sync in so many ways.

"Some binding spells and a few other things." The answering look of disapproval made Sam's hackles rise. "What, Dean? We have to try—I'm not just gonna give up on you."

Sam kept his attention squarely on his brother, driving his point home.

Misunderstanding, Dean grunted, "I didn't give up…had no choice…"

"Yes, Dean, there is. Bobby and I can make the black magic spells work."

Dean let his head fall back against the pillows and met Sam's eyes, the worry unmistakable.

"I'll be fine." Sam's mouth curved on the last word.

"Sam." Quiet, but layered with so much. Dean swallowed, talking was sapping his reserves. "It'll come for you."

"That's not gonna happen. Especially since we're throwing in this binding spell. It won't be strong enough to break through both the circle and the spell."

The steady cadence of Bobby's shower filled the room for a moment as both men broke off. Clenching his jaw, Sam pursed his lips and looked down.

"So what do you want me to do? What would _you_ do if it was me instead?"

"C'mon, Sam," Dean rasped, and looked to the ceiling. "Not the same."

"How?! How's it not the same, Dean? Don't you think I would do anything for you—do anything to keep you safe? Is it right to ask me to lose my brother?"

Dean rolled his head back to him, lids hanging heavy over shadowed eyes.

"I'm doing this. I'm determined to save you. And, so is Bobby."

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted in a ghost of a lopsided smile. The squeak of rusty knobs twisting off filled the empty space. Silence stretched between them in the aftermath of the exchange. Color began to rise in Dean's cheeks as his temperature began to climb once again and he trembled as the onslaught of chills took over again. Reaching up, he fingered his throbbing head, unable to contain the wince that lined his face. Noticing, Sam plopped two more percocets into his brother's hand and handed him the water, helping him lean forward to drink the cool liquid.

"Why don't you try to rest, huh? Bobby and I have a few more things to work out, maybe get some breakfast in a few hours when the gas station opens up."

Sam moved to leave, but Dean's hand shot out and stopped him.

"Sam. I'm sorry." He took a breath and then another, but his voice was starting to fail. "I didn't know what else to do. Hannah…it messed with my mind…didn't know which way was up. Couldn't tell what was real."

Nodding, Sam tapped his brother on the chest and said, "I know." Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. "That doesn't matter now. We have a lot to discuss when this is over, but right now, I want you to take it easy. You've been through a lot."

Body still uncooperative, Dean let it drop. The short conversation used up all he had to give. He blinked leadenly. Already, he was hovering between realms. The next thing he remembered, Bobby was pushing the bathroom door open, coming out in a billow of steam. Sam's warm arm was still lying under his palm.

"Plenty of hot water left if you want your turn, Sam."

Sam turned toward their friend and stood, breaking the contact.

"Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it. Some people," his eyes bounced playfully to Dean, "like to hog all the hot water."

Dean watched his little brother walk away, shoulders squared and determined. Amazed and proud of the man his brother had become, he felt his own resolve strengthen. At least something in their messed up lives had turned out right. And he'd protect him at all costs.

TBC

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A/N: Well, people, summer vacation is officially over for me and I'm back to work. For those of you who like to know what's up with a late chapter, I'll try to give heads up or leave a bit of news at my LJ (link's on my profile page). I'd apologize for my lateness, but you've heard it all before, blah, blah, blah…So, instead, I'll just thank you for your patience and for sticking with me. It means a lot.

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews last time and, well, just for reading.

Special thanks to Mady Bay for giving me Sam's parting shot to Dean and, of course, for the beta'ing job and to Tidia who, though swamped by the demands of writing the "Brotherhood" series, still manages to make time for me.

Big shout out of thanks goes to Onari for letting me borrow rocking!Dean and to Thru Terry's Eyes for being my guinea pig.


	13. Chapter 13: When Morning Comes

A/N#1: As I go to post this, I want you to be aware that I did some last minute tweaking even though I'm barely awake right now. I tell you this so you'll know why if something isn't quite right or seems a little wonky. Don't blame the betas, it's all me. I wouldn't even post it without another go through on a fresh mind, but I promised a few people I would have it up tonight. So please forgive any and all mistakes.

* * *

Chapter 13: When Morning Comes

The fragrance of dark roasted coffee and something cheesy teased him awake. It would've been pleasant if not for the spinning room making his stomach lurch and roll. The last thing he remembered was Sam's back disappearing behind the bathroom door.

Still weighted down by the effects of the drugs, he allowed himself to drift in and out of the conversation surrounding him. There was talk of rites, ingredients and other things said around mouthfuls of food. His head throbbed sharply. Moving it even just a little made the room pitch and sway nauseatingly. In close competition was the stinging ache of his shoulder, the skin blazing as if burned, and a vague painful itching sensation across various parts of his body. He'd been lying in the same position too long and needed badly to shift. It didn't matter in what direction; any change would be welcome, anything to ease the numb tightness in his lower back and hips.

Wincing, he pushed his heavy lids open. Glaring light stung his eyes and he blinked against it. Slowly, the piercing stabs eased enough so he could keep them open; take in his immediate surroundings. He was surprised to find the curtains pulled closed. It seemed impossibly bright to his sensitive brain, much like staring into the sun. He must've made a sound he wasn't aware of because suddenly two pairs of concerned eyes fixed on him—probing, searching and perhaps weighing.

"Hey," came Sam's gentle voice, "feel like sitting up, maybe eating something?"

Dean worked his thick tongue around in his mouth and swallowed, nearly gagging on the dryness in his throat.

"Water would be good." He was startled at how weak and rough his voice came out. It didn't even sound like him and that was a little unnerving. Levering his arms against the bed, he pushed his body upward.

Sam was at his side in two strides, a strong hand under his arm and another behind his back. A short bark of pain broke loose involuntarily, but was forgotten when the sudden feeling of free falling had him grasping and clutching at the solidness of the bed. He must've looked a sight too, because when his vision cleared, Sam's face had tightened into a menagerie of fear, worry and…was that guilt? Leave it to Sam to feel guilty for something Dean had done to himself.

"You okay?"

He started to nod, then thought better of it. "Yeah…I think so."

His brother's fingers remained curled around his bicep, lending solid support while he gained his bearings. Off to the right, Bobby stood with his thumbs hooked in his pockets, face guarded. Breathing steadily through his nose, Dean clenched his jaw against the pain and nausea washing through him and waited while Sam propped several stiff pillows behind his back. Fetching a large Styrofoam cup from the table, Sam handed him the drink and then seated himself on the opposite bed.

Looking apologetic, Sam said, "I'd have gotten you coffee, but you need to re-hydrate."

Dean sipped tentatively from the straw and then grimaced. "Dude, what is this?"

"PowerAde," Sam grinned. "Helps restore electrolytes. I got us some egg, cheese and bacon biscuits, too."

Suddenly his brother was off the bed and coming back with a white paper sack dotted with greasy spots. Dean took another sip of the blue concoction, just thankful to have something to wet his mouth and throat. He eyed the normally coveted breakfast fare with suspicion – Sam holding it out like a peace offering.

Just the idea of food made his stomach flip-flop. "I don't know, man. Not really hungry." He waved the still-warm sandwich away.

Disappointed, Sam pointed at the glass. "Well, just make sure you drink as much of that as you can."

Sam tossed the wrapped biscuit back on the table. Features sober and hesitant, he fidgeted with his hands in his pockets. "So, how're you feeling?"

Dean's mouth quirked as he peered up from under sooty lashes. "Like I shot myself in the head."

"Yeah, well, lucky for you you're a_ terrible_ shot when you're drunk."

Though said as if it were light banter, the tightness around Sam's eyes never left. He had been hurt by what Dean had done. Not hurt as in betrayed, but hurt in the sense that the memories would play out in the dark of night for some time to come. _Yeah,_ Dean thought, _definitely hurt and scared._ Dean would have to tolerate his brother's mothering as penance. _Damn._

Inhaling deeply, Dean glanced between the two men and asked, "So, when's the party?"

Lips making an 'o' and eyebrows high, Sam answered, "Well, that kinda depends on you. Bobby's wards are getting weaker by the day…but, we need to wait until you get some of your strength back."

"Well, there's no time like the present," Dean said, shifting as if to get up.

"Easy there, tiger," Bobby interjected. "There's no rush…you look like death warmed over – twice."

"Look, I appreciate the concern, but I'm good."

"No, Dean. Bobby's right. You aren't ready for this. You can barely sit up, man. Just give us another day." Sam's voice rose along with his indignation.

"Sam, I'm fine. Sore as hell, but fine."

Pushing himself upright, Dean's face crumpled as bolts of lightning exploded in his head, temporarily blinding him. He held his body still and waited for the moment to pass. Meanwhile, Sam and Bobby stayed still—allowing him to learn this lesson without interference. Raising an unsteady hand to his forehead, Dean held his breath against the pain and blinked as colors began to reform into recognizable shapes.

He stubbornly pushed his legs over the side of the bed, one arm clenched to his side and the other dropping from his head to wad the bed sheets. By the time he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, Dean had turned a sickly shade of pale green, sweat dampening his hair and glistening on his skin.

Cocking a pain-laced sideways grin, Dean said, "See? Good as new."

Huffing disgustedly, Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah, green's a good look for you, Dean."

Suddenly Dean was pressing a hand to his lips, eyes large and wide.

Shifting his weight forward, Sam asked, "Dean?"

Swallowing hard, Dean groaned, "Maybe sitting up wasn't such a good idea."

And that was all the permission his brother needed. Sam lowered Dean back against the mound of pillows, not suffering any protests, muttering something about idiots that don't listen. Still grumbling, Sam's gaze darted quickly between his brother and the trashcan, apparently evaluating the need for the plastic receptacle. The spinning slowed, but the sickness in his gut was sharply present. Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the undulating room with a hand pressed to his stomach and prayed that everything stayed where it belonged.

"You gonna be okay? Need the trashcan?" he heard Sam asking.

He gave an abbreviated shake of his head, but didn't trust himself enough to speak just yet. After a minute or so he forced out a tight-lipped, "Dude, quit hovering! I'm okay."

Without even opening his eyes, he knew exactly what his little brother was doing. Sam's attention had always been a tightly focused beam burning his skin and making him hyper-aware of every little nuance of his own body. He forced his hands to stop their shaking and smoothed his features out the best he could, unable to completely release the set of his jaw and the tension in his brow. Finally, he heard Sam scoot the trash can nearer to the bed before retreating with a sigh. The sound of a chair scuffing against carpet gave away Sam's new position. Giving himself some privacy by throwing an arm over his eyes, Dean listened as the conversation picked up where it'd left off.

"So," his brother was saying, "where are we gonna get this stuff? I mean, amber, juniper, black pillar candles, orris root, powdered iron, frankincense…an athame? We aren't exactly equipped with this stuff."

Bobby replied, closer now, "I guess someone's gonna have to make a run into Phoenix. I can probably make it there and back in about six hours." Metal keys clinked together as they slid free from a pocket.

"Oh, hey, Bobby, I can—"

"Nah. I already know what most of that stuff looks like. It'd be better if I go. You boys need anything before I hit the road?"

A pause during which Dean was certain he could hear Sam's thoughts doing triple overtime and then, "Uh, no. No, I think I got everything earlier."

Dean imagined Bobby nodding as he headed toward the door. "Okay. Listen, you boys stay put. No one outside this room. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." There was a short pause, then, "Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

A clunk of plastic knocking against wood as Sam picked up the phone. "Take my phone…just in case."

Dean heard Bobby catch the phone and say, "Yeah. Okay, Sam." before shutting the door behind him.

Sam's chair squeaked as his weight shifted, and then papers rattled as they were shuffled and reorganized. Dean knew Sam was going back through everything one last time, checking and rechecking the plan. Air being forced out his nose meant either Sam was geared up and ready to get on with it or anxious about something not working just the way it should. More shuffling and then a pen scribbling furiously across a page filled the empty space between them.

Sam liked to note his concerns or thoughts in writing. It made them more solid and real to him, Dean guessed. Gave Sam more control than he maybe felt he actually had. It had always been important to his brother, that feeling of control. Sam needed to have a firm grip on things at all times, to have stability in his thoughts and actions. Dean had long ago accepted the uncertainty of life and knew that control was only an illusion at best.

Even now the only thing keeping him sane and in possession of his own mind was the wards Bobby had set. Without that, he had no doubt the demon would be here, now, tormenting him with Hannah's skin. The worst part of it all was that he'd allowed himself to be worn down; he'd bought every image and every word completely. He hadn't been strong for Sam. But the memory of Hannah had been so _real_. From the moment Daniel's hand had slipped away, she'd been foremost on his mind and in his dreams. And, now, with Daniel…just one more thing, the weight of one more life on his shoulders.

But that was no excuse for what he'd done. For what he'd tried to do. It wasn't that he was unwilling to give up his life for Sam's, not at all. If the situation came down to it, if he really had to decide, there was no question what he'd choose—without hesitation or reservation. This had been different, though. More than one motive had been involved. If he was honest with himself, he knew it wasn't as simple as choosing between Sam and himself. Oh, it had definitely been a factor – a huge factor – but deep down he knew he'd _wanted_ the escape. He'd wanted to make the pain stop and that's what really scared him. How could he take the easy way out? How could he do that to Sam?

_Awesome, Dean. Tell your brother you're responsible for the death of a friend and then saddle him with your own death. Real selfish bastard way of doing things._

He wouldn't blame Sam if he were angry. He wouldn't blame Sam if he never forgave him or trusted him again. So, why _was_ Sam being so calm about it? His brother didn't act pissed or even hurt beyond the obvious terror of almost having lost him.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Dean startled at Sam's voice, lifting his arm away from his face.

"Talk about what?" he stalled.

Gingerly, he eased himself higher on the pillows – careful to go slow and easy. Sam remained at the table – had been watching him for some time, evidently.

Sam shrugged. "Whatever's on your mind." Seeing that Dean meant to duck and weave, Sam lifted a hand, palm out. "No, Dean. Don't lie to me about this…or to yourself. You're strong silent crap is fooling no one. Things got bad and you're still dealing with it. Let me help."

There it was. Proof that Sam had lost confidence in his ability to deal. _He thinks I'm weak because of what happened._

"I don't need your pity, Sam. I—"

"Pity? You think _that's_ what this is? Well, it's not. I just meant—"

"Oh, c'mon, Sam! We both know I screwed up—hell, I handed the damn thing the keys and showed it the door. God, Sam, I just…" Dean shook his head, tried to shake loose the useless feelings and thoughts that circled and replayed through his mind.

"You just, what, Dean?'

Dean lifted one shoulder and looked off to the side. Face pulled tight, he said, "Nah. Nothin', man."

"Whatever it is, it's not nothing. Dean, talk to me, please."

Dean paused, then with utter genuineness asked, "Aren't you pissed, man? Aren't you mad as hell about Hannah…about all of it? The truth, Sam. If you want me to be honest, then tell the truth." Dean's voice held enough self-hatred for both of them.

For a long moment, Sam didn't move. He just sat, unmoving. Then, he pushed his chair back and moved to sit opposite Dean, hands hanging loosely between his knees. He needed to be closer to his brother to say this. Needed to be fully understood.

"Sure, when you first told me about what had happened with Hannah…I was angry…hurt. I couldn't believe you'd kept this from me. And it's not like you to involve anyone else in a hunt. I was pissed that you'd put her in that kind of danger."

Hearing the words, Dean flinched. No matter how prepared he thought he was it still hurt to hear Sam _say_ the words. They lodged in his heart, jagged and sharp. He pressed his lips together and let Sam continue.

"But…after I left, after I had time to think about it, I realized you cared about her…and that you'd _never_ intentionally put anyone at risk unnecessarily. Hell, I knew Hannah, how stubborn she could be. The girl I knew…you'd have little choice but involve her. Better to bring her in than have her poking around on her own, right?"

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted in a bittersweet grin. That'd been Hannah, all right. Brave, tenacious and hardheaded. But also sweet, trusting and sincere in all ways that had mattered.

"Look, man, I'm sorry about what I said. I know you'd never use someone like that, use the _job_ like that. What happened…it wasn't your fault, Dean. And, I'm sorry I walked out on you."

Dean winced at the lost quality in his brother's voice. "No, Sam. Don't. You had every right. You needed—"

"I needed to be there for my brother." Sam met Dean's gaze with quiet intensity. "I pushed you into talking to me. I promised I wouldn't leave no matter what. Dean, I'm sorry. I was the one who messed up. If I had stayed—"

"Dude, do not blame yourself for this," Dean interjected, his tone steel and granite. But not mad, just earnest in being _heard_. "Just don't do that. What happened…it's not your fault." Sam shifted uncomfortably, uncertainty coloring his features. "I mean it, Sam. It's not."

"Yeah, but—"

"No. You've gotta stop taking the blame for stuff, man. You're not responsible for what I do."

Sam's head bobbed in agreement. "But, neither are you, Dean. Not really. It's the demon doing this."

Immediately, Dean averted his gaze, his head dipping low. Still wrapped tightly in self-blame. Not caring that Dean didn't want to hear it, Sam just steamrolled right into it. He needed his brother to put the blame squarely where it belonged.

"It was amazing how long you fought the thing off. You did that, Dean. You held in there long enough for me to find you. Bobby says most people are dead within a week. You held in there for two."

Dean cocked an eyebrow and smirked but didn't raise his head. His fingers were busy rolling a loose thread between his fingers, distracting him from the discomfort of Sam's words.

"The power this thing has," Sam continued, "it's like nothing I've – we've – ever seen, man. This thing, it's older than anything we've ever encountered. Or anything Dad ever encountered, for that matter."

Sam let the thought hang, the noisy hum of the air conditioner the only sound in the room. Dean continued to pick at the coverlet, but Sam could see by the movement of his eyes that he was thinking, absorbing, accepting. It was a step in the right direction.

"So, you think this plan will really work?" Dean finally asked.

"Yeah. I mean, it has to, right? I'm not letting this thing win." Sam's weak grin was meant to be reassuring.

Dean looked up. "Got a back up plan?"

Sam's turn to avert his gaze, study the lines in his fingers and hand. "No." Then peered up from lowered brows, apology etched in every corner of his face.

"All right. Well, I might able to help with that."

Uneasy, Sam asked, "What do you mean?"

"If Bobby's hoodoo doesn't work, I've got an alternate idea. But…you're not gonna like it."

Sam's face crinkled in confusion, then gradually fell flat. "No, Dean. You're not killing yourself—I'm not doing it for you, either. That's not an option, it's—"

"Chill, dude. Nothing that permanent. While I was," he gestured with his hands, "_gone_, I called Joshua looking for a way to kill this thing. He said that it only has until the next new moon to get its next soul. In the meantime, it will become desperate enough to take the soul by force…but, if the life of the person is taken by another on that _last_ night, it will weaken enough to be killed by more conventional methods."

"Okay, so?"

"So, if we can get Bobby to mix up one of his special concoctions, something that would temporarily stop my heart, and you or Bobby give it to me on that last night, then we could kill it. You revive me and all's well that ends well."

Sam's eyes rounded as he asked incredulously, "What?! You want us to kill you and then try to bring you back?"

"Why not? I'm like a cat with nine lives, dude."

"No, Dean. Just—no. What if it doesn't work? What if we can't bring you back?"

Dean schooled his features, patience giving him a calmness he knew Sam needed right then. "Sam, look, man, we'll try your way first…but if it doesn't work, then we can use this as a backup. I mean, we'll have nothing to lose. It'll take me by force if you can't stop it. One way or another, I'm dead. At least this way, we have a shot."

Sam stood and paced from the door to the bed and back again. "I don't like it, Dean."

"Well, tell me about it! I don't like it much, either, but we have to consider it as a possibility."

All he got was silence with the classic bitch-face.

"Sam, you know I'm right."

More silence and a bitchier bitch-face.

"You got any better ideas?"

_C'mon, Sam. Work with me here. _

He just needed Sam to agree to this. It was taking massive effort to keep from giving in to the pounding of his head. The pain behind his eyes was increasing, red sparks blooming with each blink. But, he couldn't let go until Sam was with him in this.

Studying his brother, Sam didn't miss the pinching around Dean's eyes. Knew his brother needed to be resting, but wouldn't until this was settled.

"Okay," he finally relented. "I'll call Bobby and fill him in after I've checked a few more things."

Relieved, Dean relaxed into his pillows. Fatigue tugged at him and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes against the pain, but Sam continued to sit across from him, poised to say more.

"What, Sam?"

"You know, if you want to get your strength back, you really should eat something. We've got other stuff besides the sandwich…" He pointed to the white, plastic sacks bunched in the corner of the room.

"If I eat, do you promise no more talking for the next three hours at least?"

Sam laughed and held up his hand, "Promise. No talking if you eat."

Dean rolled his eyes as he groused, "Toss me the sandwich."

Though it was slow going and felt like way too much work for such a simple act, he finally made it through half the breakfast concoction before his stomach refused to be bombarded any further. He tossed the remains into the wastebasket left by his bed earlier and set the cup that had been planted between his legs on the side table. He followed Sam's movements out of the corner of his eye – still wondering how he'd managed avoiding a more in-depth talk about Hannah. He'd thought for sure Sam would zero right in and insist on having an emo hash-fest about her. Maybe he was still trying to deal with it himself, not yet ready to tackle a full-on confrontation.

Before he could envision what a full-on confrontation might look like, an electrifying surge of pain blanked out his thoughts, forcing him to clamp his teeth down on the cry fighting for release. His vision filled with white light and he fisted his hands against it, unwilling to cause Sam more concern. It would pass. In a minute or two, it would pass. He just had to remain calm. Breathe in and out. In and out.

The blistering heat built and then mushroomed, forcing both hands to his head. He couldn't hold back the sound building in the back of his throat. "Ahhh!"

Sam's head whipped around in his brother's direction. "Dean?!"

Before Sam could fully rise from his chair, an invisible wall of pressure knocked him back into it. He opened his mouth to call out once more and felt a gag made of air seal the sound off. Terror-filled eyes snapped toward Dean. His brother was curled on his side, head tucked in with palms pressing the sides hard enough to be painful in and of itself.

An unstable image began to fluctuate beside Dean and Sam could just make out the shape of an extended arm reaching for his brother's head. Dean's body shuddered before going stiff as he reared back, a cry of pain turning into an angry growl. Using every ounce of his determination, Dean rolled off the bed and away from the figure that was becoming more solidly Hannah. Sam struggled against the force holding him to the chair, fear and frustration pouring off him in waves. He had to break loose, get to Dean. But, no matter how hard he bucked and twisted, nothing worked.

Helplessly, he watched as the creature walked right through the bed and knelt beside his brother who was desperately trying to crab-crawl away from it. Defenseless. Dean had no weapons and their bags were on the opposite side of the room. Once the wall stopped his backward escape, she – it – reached for his head again.

"Get away from me you freaky bitch!" Dean kicked out with his leg, but it passed through her as if she were nothing, leaving her completely unaffected.

Seeming to enjoy the resistance, the creature smiled, spilling bloody saliva down the sides of her chin and neck. Slowly, she advanced, straddling Dean and moving in until they were nose to nose, his head pushed against the wall.

"Dean," she cooed. "I've missed you."

"Well, I haven't missed you, sister."

"Aw," she pouted, "you hurt my feelings. You know I just want what's best for you."

"Yeah, well, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself, thanks."

"Dean," she breathed into his ear, caressing his neck on the opposite side, "I'm hungry. Feed me."

"Screw you!" he spat, trying to jerk away.

"Feed me," she groaned, pressing herself into him, no longer transparent. "I need you."

Dean would've told her what she could do to herself, but the contact made the air in his throat dry up, lungs frozen in place. Suddenly more solid than he realized, she was kissing his open mouth, smearing her blood on his chin. Revolted, he tried to break the contact, but there was nowhere to retreat.

Pulling back, her soulless eyes bore into his. "Feel my pain, Dean. Feel what you did to me."

Raising her hands to his head again, she laced her fingers through his hair. Gasping, Dean tried to suck in air – eyes bulging – and wrapped his fingers around her wrists, trying to jerk them away. Brilliant light flooded his mind, taking him back to the night he lost Hannah, forcing him to relive it as if it were actually happening. His mind resisted, tried to remember where he really was, but the creature's power was strong. Undeniably, he found himself being drawn into the nightmare of long ago.

"No," he whispered. "No…please."

Behind them, Sam watched, rage and fear clawing through his soul and making a hole there big enough to fall into. He could see his brother struggle against whatever the creature was doing to him, his fingers scratching loose the rotted skin on her wrists and his legs moving wildly against the carpet. It didn't take long before Dean's hands fell away and his legs ceased their movement. As his eyes rolled back into his head, a soft moan announced the agony inside. Pleased, the demon's grin grew wider as it began the torture Dean had endured during his days without Sam.

"Save me, Dean. Please, I don't want to die," it pleaded with Hannah's voice.

Sam swallowed hard, his heart in his throat. He knew this show was for him, Dean already locked deep inside his own mind. The fear on his brother's face was potent and wrenching. It made him sick to see Dean toyed with like this.

"Don't look down. I've gotcha."

He heard Dean say the words, heard the undeniable urgency in his brother's tone and knew Dean was afraid. Sam's stomach knotted and he bared his teeth as he fought back with all his strength, desperate to protect his brother from his tormenter.

Keeping its death-hold on Dean, the demon turned to look at Sam with glee as it faked, "I'm scared. Please, help me. I'm slipping."

"N-n-no, no. Please, just—NO! Hannah!" One of Dean's legs thrust out and his whole body jerked.

His brother's broken cry pierced Sam's heart, sending hatred, pure and fiery, rushing through his veins. Hatred liked he'd never felt for anything or anyone before. His jaw ticked painfully as he gritted his teeth and glared at the demon, his head straining to move.

Dean slumped loosely now, held vertical only by the evil thing perched in his lap. Wetness glistened under his bottom lashes, despair-cloaked green eyes fixating on images no one but he could see. A small, thin line of blood oozed from his nose onto his lips.

"No," he whimpered. "God, please."

The creature turned its full attention back to Dean. She placed both hands on either side of his head and leaned closer.

"Dean, you let me die. I trusted you."

Swirls of unearthly light reflected in Dean's eyes and Sam knew his brother would believe anything the demon wanted him to.

Crushed, Dean blinked, sending a tear falling to the floor. "I'm sorry." It was spoken so softly that Sam barely caught the words at all. "I'm sorry," Dean repeated.

"What will Sam say? He'll hate you for this," it goaded.

"Sam?" Dean blinked. Then, realization dawning, he said, "You can't tell him. Please, you can't." Then he gulped and softly mumbled, "He's all I've got left."

The demon laid a hand on the side of Dean's jaw, causing him to flinch. Smug and arrogant. "There's only one way out of this, Winchester. Only one way the pain can be stopped. Come to me and I'll show you the way."

Dean paused. "But, Sam—"

"—doesn't want anything more to do with you," she filled in. "Remember? He hates you for what you've done. And if you go to him, he'll die…just like everyone you touch."

The cords in Dean's throat pulled tight as he swallowed the pain that brought. Sam closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to watch anymore. He hated being used against his brother. Knew Dean wouldn't want him to see this. Despair welled inside as he listened to the conversation continue. How had his brother ever endured this for so long? It was overwhelming and cruel in the worst way. This thing was clever, though. It was going to walk Dean right out that door and into its waiting arms. Bobby's wards must've weakened to allow the current display of power, but not enough to grant full privileges.

Or, maybe this was a last ditch effort. Maybe this was taking everything it had left, weakening it further. Maybe…

The form before Dean glimmered and shifted. For a second, Sam felt lighter, freed. Focusing on the unseen bonds, he renewed his attempts to break them. Winking in and out, the creature appeared next to Dean rather than on his lap and his eyes returned to their normal color. Hannah's form looked outraged at being interrupted…she'd been so close to winning. A _flashflashflash_ and she was gone, once again repelled by the wards.

Sam's chair banged heavily against the floor as he flew from it. Dean slid sideways, the 90-degree angle of the wall stopping his downward motion. When Sam reached him, he was still disoriented and caught between what had been forced on his mind and what really was. Withdrawing further into the corner, he cringed when his brother's fingers grazed his skin.

Sam's breath hitched in his throat, but he kept his voice easy and loose, pretending he hadn't noticed. "It's okay. She's gone. Guess it must've saved up for an all-out blitz on the wards but couldn't sustain it. Probably off licking its wounds somewhere, getting ready for another try."

He tipped his brother's head back and looked at the reddening marks left behind on his jaw and neck – anywhere the creature had touched bare skin. "Damn, Dean," Sam muttered, wiping away the blood under his brother's nose with a thumb. As he fussed, awareness lit within Dean's gaze and grew into recognition.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, man. 'S okay."

Sam righted his brother and waited, one hand resting on Dean's shoulder for support. Dean drew his knees to his chest and leaned his head against the wall, eyes shut against the pain still exploding inside his skull. He said nothing, just sat and gathered everything back to him silently. Wrapping his arms around his middle, Dean shivered as if chilled.

"You okay?"

A half-nod.

"Wanna talk about it?

Barely a shake of his head, but nothing further.

"Okay, but I'm here…and I'm not going _anywhere_."

Sam eased down beside Dean and sat shoulder to shoulder with him, taking on a good deal of his brother's weight as Dean leaned into him. They sat, each lost in their own mind and saying nothing, because things had been too deeply personal – open and raw. It would be hours later before either one would be ready to emerge from the safety of their small Winchester cocoon on the floor.

TBC

* * *

A/N#2: Well, here we are, on the downward slope of this thing. I figure one maybe two more chapters plus an epilogue left to go. I had really hoped to get this done before the premiere, but it's not looking good, folks. I'm not saying I won't try, just saying there's a good possibility it won't happen. I'm sorry it took so long in between posts this time, but that's the way it goes. Thanks for your continued patience with this and for your patience with my slothful review responses. I can almost guarantee they'll be a little late again. Not on purpose, but just because. 

Starting a week or so ago, I started posting updates on my progress at my LJ so you can see what's going on and know I am actually still working on it. So, there's that if you want to check in on me and see what's up. Once again, I thank you all profusely for following along and giving me the boost I need to get this done…can never say that enough. Thank you all!

Special thanks to my betas, Mady and Tidia, who help make this possible in a lot of ways and special thanks to Gaelicspirit for actually joining in on the fun this time around. I appreciated all of the comments, corrections and guidance from all three of you wonderful ladies! If you haven't already, you really should stop by and give each of these awesome writers's a read as they all have their own great collection of stories available.

The title of this chapter is a special shout out to LSketch42 over at LJ for her amazing SN vid, "Morning Comes."


	14. Chapter 14: Dancing with the Devil

Chapter 14: Dancing with the Devil

Bobby flipped Sam's phone shut with an audible click. It had taken him two tries to answer the cotton-pickin' thing and then several minutes more to figure out what Sam was saying. By the time he moved outside for a better signal, the boy's voice was loud and frustrated.

When Sam had filled him in on what had happened, he'd felt ice-cold fear flood through his veins, making his heart skip a beat. They didn't have as much time left as he'd hoped—Dean's new plan was dependent on tonight's new moon. The whole thing lodged in Bobby's craw like a jagged bone and made his stomach roll. He really hoped it didn't come to that. But the kid had been right about one thing, if Plan A didn't work, they'd have no other choice. If anything at all went wrong, the demon would break free and take Dean by force.

Bobby shielded his eyes from the intensely, glaring Phoenix sun and scanned the dirt lot for the familiar Chevy. A dust devil spun with delight a couple of feet behind the Impala, coating the car in its red-gold color and stealing away the luster and vibrancy of its shiny wax job. Just like the demon had done to Dean. The boy was strong, had an ironclad will, but no one could stand in the face of an evil older than time, that much Bobby knew.

Throwing the sacks of purchased goods into the passenger seat, Bobby slid in behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. His hands were shaking with anxiety and _hurry_, making him clumsy and rough. He'd patiently instructed Sam on how to set up temporary wards on the truck and then again at his place in Nebraska. Time was everything and they didn't have enough of it to meet back up at the motel. Instead, they'd all agreed to relocate at his house where they would have an uncarpeted floor to draw the sacred circle and privacy for the ruckus they'd no doubt cause.

Gripping the wheel tight, he issued a prayer to the heavens, hoping God was listening and pressed the pedal hard. Tires spun against the baked Arizona landscape, catching hold of the paved road and eating up the highway between him and his new destination.

oooOOOooo

Slipping Dean's phone into his pocket, Sam wiped at the sides of his mouth and ran a hand through his hair. He'd left a sullen and abnormally quiet Dean propped against the headboard of his bed when he came outside to make the call. Sam was struggling with his own emotions and had stepped outside to make the call. Dean had barely taken notice, eyes averted and face closed, burrowing deeper into himself. Sam worried that the day would soon come when Dean would dig so far in he'd never surface again. After what had happened, Sam wasn't surprised by the withdrawal—but the absolute lack of _anything_ was concerning. Dean's stillness screamed louder than if Dean had opened his mouth and cut loose with all his might.

Sighing, he laid a hand on the doorknob and paused. Taking a deep breath, he composed his face, twisted the knob and entered the room. Dean was where he'd left him, knees drawn to chest and gaze lost in the middle ground—looking bereft and empty. When Sam spoke, Dean flinched, but quickly covered by shifting higher in the bed, throwing a cursory glance at his brother.

"So," Sam began again, "Bobby wants us to meet him at his place. Said we should get started as soon as we can get our stuff packed up and wards set on the truck."

Still careful of head motions, Dean gave a minute nod and started to swing his legs off the bed.

"No, I got it, man. Just…you know, rest while you can. I haf'ta take care of the truck, but I'll come back in and pack our stuff."

A flicker of emotion skirted Dean's features and he scowled. "Who's gonna watch your back while your trickin' Bobby's truck?"

"I'll take the shotgun with me," he said with a shrug. "Bobby left me plenty of consecrated rounds and—"

"You're not going out there alone."

"Dean. Seriously. I'll be fine."

"I'm not _dead_, Sam. I think I can manage standing watch."

Hands spread wide, Sam's voice rose, "Yeah, Dean? And how you gonna do that when you can't even stand without bobbing and weaving like…a…a…a drunk on a week-long bender?"

Instantly Dean flushed red, hands fisting at his sides. "You really want to do this now, Sam? Huh? Because we might have more pressing concerns. I said I could do it, or don't you have any faith in me to—" Dean's jaw clicked shut and he looked away.

A pang of regret throbbed in Sam's chest when he realized what Dean was about to say. So that's what this was about. He really should've known, should've seen where this was headed. Dean needed to feel _trusted_. Sam blew out a breath as he shook his head and looked down. He hadn't meant to lose his temper; he was just so _worried_ and _tired_ and _scared_.

"Alright," he compromised, "but stay inside the doorway, okay?"

A clipped nod sealed the deal and some of the tension fell away from Dean's shoulders. "Pack our stuff first—in case we have to leave fast once you get the truck all," he gestured with his fingers in the air, "mojo'd."

Sam nodded. "Most of it's still packed. Mainly just gotta get Bobby's books."

It only took minutes and all their things were jammed in Bobby's lock box, all except the few weapons they kept out and whatever Sam needed for the wards.

"Toss me my pants?" Dean held out a hand.

"Uh, yeah. No problem." Sam snagged the worn pair of jeans from the back of a chair.

Instead of throwing them over like he'd normally have done, he walked them over and waited. Already green as a gourd, Dean knew better than to refuse the silent offer of help. He stuffed his legs into his jeans and pushed off the bed without a word. Pausing halfway, Dean let out a grunt through his nose and swallowed thickly. One hand wadded in the waistband of the pants and the other latched firmly onto Sam's forearm, bruising flesh with the pressure. He waited for the vertigo and thrumming stabs to pass, then straightened, shrugging the jeans over his hips.

"Thanks," he mumbled, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.

Sam shifted his weight. "No problem."

Boots came next and Sam had to help with that, too, but he didn't mind. Caring for his brother was never a burden. Not even a little bit.

Studying Dean's face, he asked, "You ready?"

A short nod. "Yeah. Let's do this."

They took the short journey to the door slow and easy, Sam hovering to the side but trying not to crowd. Standing in the open doorway, Sam handed Dean the shotgun and picked up the plastic baggies filled with ground blackberry leaves, thistle, amber powder, ahtela, and juniper berries. Looking back at Dean, he jerked a nod and crossed the threshold. Dean wavered, but stood firm; junkyard-dog tough and determined to protect.

Working quickly, Sam read the rites and hurriedly stashed the herbs in the four corners of the cab, tossing a couple of sacks into the bed of the truck for good measure. Turning back to Dean, he started to say something but the chilling sound of flapping wings filled the empty space directly above him.

"Sam! Get down!" Dean barked.

As he ducked, two earsplitting blasts sliced through the air to his right, echoing loudly in the small parking lot. This was closely followed by the demon's shrill shriek as it tumbled away from him mid-air. When Sam uncovered his head, Dean stood propped against the doorframe, face pallid and tight against the pain, free hand buried into his throbbing shoulder, gun hanging loose in the other.

Catching the weapon as it slid from Dean's fingers, Sam swung an arm around his brother's back and swept them both into the truck—slamming the door shut seconds before hooked talons clattered against glass. The creature loosed another piercing cry—making Sam's skin crawl—then landed heavily on the hood. Deft fingers shoved the key into the ignition, twisting hard and sure.

Pressing itself against the glass, chilling red eyes glared at Sam. "You won't win. He's mine. He's already as good as mine. Miiine."

And Sam didn't know if it would've said more because he shoved the gearshift into reverse and punched the pedal, sending the demon rolling from the hood and across the graveled lot. With a jerk, he slammed the truck into drive and sprayed dirt and rock behind him as he raced onto the hot, tar road. A quarter mile later, Sam shot a glance at Dean who was curled forward, one hand braced against the dash and the other buried in his hair.

"Dean?" Sam asked, shifting his eyes to the rearview and back to his brother.

Dean grunted, the sound open to interpretation either way, let his hand fall away and leaned back.

"Is it following?" he asked, clipped, tight, keeping it all inside.

Hunching down in the seat, Sam peered out the windows in all directions. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Probably knows exactly where we're headed."

"Yeah, maybe. But maybe not. That'd give us a little time to get there and get the house set."

Dean closed his eyes and prayed Sam was right. The seams of his soul were worn, too thin for comfort. He didn't want to risk a direct confrontation with the thing.

"Hey. I won't let it win. I won't, Dean."

Dean's throat convulsed on the lump stuck there as he swallowed hard. "Yeah. I know you won't."

Sam blinked rapidly, then refocused blurry vision on the road ahead.

oooOOOooo

Pulling up to Bobby's house, Sam blew out a sigh of relief. The trip up had been tense, but uneventful. Dean hadn't said another word and Sam was in no mood for music. The radio had sat silent like his brother, leaving him alone with his worry—giving him plenty of time to imagine every possible failure lying in wait. Eventually, Dean had fallen asleep, his features finally relaxing, his head pressed against the passenger window. Sleeping, sure, but Sam wasn't confident any resting was actually involved. Guttural moans had rumbled deep in Dean's chest from time to time, accompanied by reflexive jerking of his limbs. It hadn't done a thing to put Sam at ease.

Kneading burning neck muscles, Sam killed the engine and pocketed the keys. He reached over and gently prodded Dean's knee.

"Dean." Then a little more loudly, "Dean."

His brother jackknifed and immediately regretted it. Digging the heel of one hand into his eye socket, Dean growled, "Damn." Sucking in a breath, he grumbled, "We here?"

"Yeah. And it looks clear." Sam shifted toward Dean and waited.

Dean unconsciously rubbed at his shoulder. "So, what's the plan?"

"Well, I don't suppose it'd do me any good to suggest you wait here while I take care of the house, would it?"

"None whatsoever." Dean threw Sam a rigid, blank look.

Huffing, Sam cut his eyes out the window and then back again. "I didn't think so. Alright, then, we go together. Me on shotgun and you on baggies. Think you can remember the rites?"

"No, Sam. I'm weak _and_ incompetent," Dean retorted, snatching the bags from their place on the seat and shoving out of the truck before Sam could say anything.

_Shit_. Sam scrambled after him.

"Hey, Dean? Pissy much?" Thick silence was his answer and the distance between them grew, forcing Sam to break into a sprint. "Dude, wait up."

His stubborn brother ploughed ahead resolute, unyielding, until a brief pause then sway had him reaching for the door. Slapping a hand hard against the doorframe, he bent his head, closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to ease.

When Sam came up behind him, Dean kept his head down, but he quietly mumbled, "I'm sorry. I didn't—it's just that—"

"It's okay, man," Sam interrupted, clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know. Let's just get this done."

Dean nodded and pushed the door in. With Sam pressed against his back, they eased forward, both pairs of eyes scanning for danger. Once inside, Sam booted the door shut and continued his attentive guard. He listened to his brother's deep voice slide through the rites efficiently as he tossed each of the satchels into place. Amazingly, the whole thing went off without a hitch—one for the record books. Sam brought in the rest of their stuff, convinced Dean to kick back on the couch, and then rummaged through Bobby's kitchen in search of food.

Coming back with a family-sized bag of Cheetos in hand, he caught Dean fussing with his shoulder again—dropping his hand away as soon as he registered Sam's appearance.

With a nod in Dean's direction, Sam set the food aside and said, "Take off your shirt."

"Oh, God, Sam. It's just sore from the kickback."

Ignoring him, Sam seated himself on the coffee table in front of Dean. "Yeah, well, humor me."

Dean didn't move and he didn't say anything, but the disgust on his face spoke volumes.

"C'mon, Dean. It might be getting re-infected. Just let me take a quick look."

Green eyes rolled impatiently.

"Dude, Hurry up. I've got soup on the stove and I don't want it boiling over."

"Whatever,_Mom_."

Dean shucked off his coat and then started to peel his shirt over his head, pausing when the injury protested, and then grimaced through the motion. Pulling in his lips, he let his eyes wander toward the window as Sam removed the bandage and studied the tender, pink spot beneath. Obviously still healing, but no sign the infection was back.

Already nodding, Sam pronounced, "Looks good. Probably hurts like hell, but at least it stopped oozing." He astutely ignored the 'told you so' looks and continued, "Let me redress it and then I'll let you get back to sulking."

"Go to hell, Sam."

Dean's eyes dared him to say more, but Sam didn't feel like fighting, wasn't even sure why he'd said it. Nerves maybe or maybe he just missed Dean talking to him. He couldn't be sure which, but he let it drop with one look at his brother's drawn, pasty face.

Wearily, Dean leaned into threadbare cushions, rested his head on the back, and stared at the watermarked ceiling—content to let Sam play nurse if it'd get him off his back. Bobby's place was quiet, filled with the smell of old books and bachelor-mechanic. It felt familiar and safe. Such a contrast from where they'd just come and he melted into it, letting his mind wander. His little brother's fingers were cool and rough on his skin. Rough with scars, rough from the physical labor sometimes

required by the job. Sam should have warm, soft hands—lawyer hands—unaccustomed to hard work and never without creature comforts. He frowned at that thought and wondered where it had come from?

"What?"

Sam's voice startled him out of his reverie. Blinking eyes open he hadn't remembered shutting, he gave a small shake of his head. The nap on the way up had done little to ease the bone-deep weariness pulling at every cell and every pore in his body. Exhaustion made even grunting seem like an insurmountable task.

His brother was sitting back now, his work done, imploring him with sad-Sammy eyes, needing to know, wanting to be let in. But what could Dean say to him? Sorry I screwed this whole hunt to hell? Sorry, I'm such a pain in the ass? Sorry, I'm failing you again? None of that would do either of them any good and he really didn't want to hear Sam telling him it wasn't his fault, he wasn't responsible for what had happened—was happening. It was his _job_ to keep Sam safe, to be the one who took the hits. Not Sam. Never Sam.

"Dean." One word, but spoken with so many layers.

He lifted his gaze back to his brother. "Sam, please. Don't."

His brother shook his shaggy head and pressed his lips together in an effort to dam the words. Predictably, that didn't last nearly long enough.

"Why can't you just talk to me? I can help."

Dean's eyes rolled. "Oh, God. Here we go."

"Don't be an ass, Dean." Getting angry now, voice low and warning.

"Look, Sam, I know you want to help. I do and I appreciate that, but you've got to understand that not everything can be fixed by talking about it. Some things just take _time_."

Sam digested that, dipping his head, processing the words and formulating his rebuttal. Blowing out a heavy sigh, and dropping his shoulders, he agreed, "You're right, not all things can be fixed by talking….but sometimes talking makes it a little easier." Dean let their eyes meet solid for a minute, then shifted his gaze down and away. "When you're ready to talk, just—I'm here. Okay?"

Sam patted his brother's knee and pushed up, leaving him to mull over his offer. Walking back into Bobby's sparse kitchen, he leaned a hip into the countertop, rubbed his eyes and pinched his nose. Why did his brother have to be so damn stubborn? The bubble-pop of the soup caught his attention; he reached over and turned off the flame, stirring the chunks of beef and veggies before ladling the hot food into bowls. Carrying the soup back to the living room, his shoulders drooped further at the sight of his fast asleep brother. Dean's weight loss and subsequent weakness was ever present on Sam's mind; Dean was far too thin. But seeing his brother sprawled on the couch, hands hanging loose in his lap, legs open and bent, Sam didn't have the heart to wake him.

Outside the familiar rumble-growl of the Impala, followed by the grating squeak-slam of the Chevy's doors, interrupted his thoughts. Bobby. Thank God. Sam's inner child longed to run and greet the older man at the door, but, instead, he set Dean's bowl on the coffee table and seated himself in the chair opposite his sleeping brother.

Seconds later Bobby slammed through the door in a rush, looking a little spooked, then genuinely surprised as wide grey eyes landed on the boys—immediately softening. Touched, Sam smiled to himself behind his spoon. Bobby wiped his hands on his tattered vest and sauntered over casually.

"You boys okay?" Still wary, but relaxing a little more as he took in the steaming bowl in Sam's hands.

"I think so…for now anyway." Sam nodded. "Helped myself to some soup—hope you don't mind. Go ahead and take Dean's." Sam gestured toward the coffee table.

Scooping up the bowl, Bobby sat at the other end of the couch, careful not to disturb Dean. Nodding his head toward the sleeping man, Bobby asked, "How is he?"

Frowning, Sam took his time coming up with a response. "Are we talking physically or—?"

"Both."

Sam let the spoon drop to the bowl and set the unfinished meal aside. "Physically, he's better—shoulder's stopped weeping and the bullet wound has sealed."

Bobby nodded then spoke out the side of his vegetable-filled mouth, "And…"

Eyebrows high, dark eyes serious, Sam confided, "It was close." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I'm telling you, Bobby…the things it did to him, made him see…" He had no words to finish his sentence and left it hanging. "And, of course, he doesn't want to talk about it, but I know he's hurting."

Bobby's appetite curbed and he, too, abandoned his bowl. Following Sam's line of vision, he looked—really looked—at Dean. The young man's face was too thin and the skin covering it was sallow. Deeper than that, his features pulled at the edges and pinched around his closed, bruised eyes. How anyone could look that miserable while resting Bobby didn't know. Dean's right hand twitched against his thigh and his head swiveled to the left as a throaty whimper broke loose, surprising Bobby with its rawness.

When he turned back to Sam, Bobby received the patented Sam Winchester look for 'Do something.'

"Did you bring my books in?"

"Yeah…over by the door."

"You draw the circle while I start setting up."

oooOOOooo

By the time they had everything in place, dusk had given way to pitch black, exceptionally dark because of the new moon. Most of the room had been stripped of its furniture—save the couch—to make room for a six-foot diameter circle drawn on the wooden planks of Bobby's floor. Other odd objects were strewn within and without the circle itself. Two shotguns had been loaded and placed in two different locations within easy reach. Dean had awakened, drunk the broth of the now cold soup and was currently watching with mild interest as Bobby placed the last black pillar candle it its spot. Recharged, his pretenses fell back into place—at least on the surface.

Drawn in brick-red chalk, the outline of the circle had been imbued with various symbols lacing in and out of the edges. At the easternmost end of the circle was an altar made up of a pentagram pendent, two black candles, an athame, a small bell, a bowl of salt and a bowl of water. Setting just inside the circle at the south end was the ingredients of the Bottle Spell: black thread, black ink, parchment paper, a bottle with a cork, one white candle, orris-root powder, sea salt, black powdered iron, and frankincense.

At the west end sat Bobby's banishment ingredients: a jar, a black candle, dirt, a pen and four squares of paper.

"You ready for this?"

Dean's gaze snapped briefly to Sam's face then fell to the leather-bound book in his brother's hands before looking away.

Sam pursed his lips. "'Cause I'm not sure I am."

"Sam," Dean's voice came out rough. Clearing it, he tried again, "I trust you…and Bobby. If anyone can pull my bacon out of the fire, it'd be you two. Right?"

Sam let the book dip so he could study his brother. Dean's growing smirk eased something coiling tight within his gut. Didn't send it packing out the front door, but made breathing a little easier.

Sam took a deep breath. "You know we're gonna have to handcuff you, right?"

"Oh, Sammy," Dean said in a singsong voice. "How kinky. I didn't know I was your type."

"Dean, please. That's not funny. This isn't our usual cakewalk, you know."

"Yeah, I do. Just—well, I want you to know I meant what I said. I trust you."

For a moment their eyes locked, souls touched and hidden messages exchanged.

"Thanks, man. That means a lot." Sam's heart blossomed with gratitude in that moment. Dean believed in him when he didn't believe in himself, when no one else would, Dean did. How could he possibly live without that?

Rubbing his hands together, Dean pushed to his feet, still a little wobbly, but making a good show of effort. "Okay, what now?"

"Now," Bobby said, "you sit in that chair and Sam and I will start the summoning ritual."

"What about the—" Dean's hands waved in the air, "you know."

"You mean this?" Bobby asked, holding up an enormous, fat syringe filled with golden amber liquid.

Sam paled, but Dean was in full fish-gape. "Dude! Don't you have anything a little smaller, maybe a little less 'House' and a little more 'Grey's Anatomy'?"

"Sorry, son. This is the smallest syringe that will hold the right amount."

Finger poking the air, Dean blustered, "Sam, you damn well better make sure we don't need that or I'm kickin' your ass when this is over."

Sam had to agree. Just the thought of stabbing Dean with it made him queasy. "So, Bobby, if we have to…where do I, uh…," he gulped, "How does it work?"

"Well, it's pretty straightforward. Just jam the needle straight into the heart muscle and push the plunger. After that, we'll have five minutes to administer the antidote."

Bobby held up a much smaller looking syringe filled with a clear liquid.

Sam shifted his weight onto his heels and asked, "And, what happens of we go past the five minute mark?"

"The longer he goes without the antidote, the higher the risk for brain damage…and not being able to counteract the potion at all."

Pulling in his lower lip and biting it, Sam nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets. His heart was fluttering again and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

Dean nudged his shoulder. "It'll be okay, Sammy. I'll be fine. I promise." Moving away, Dean eased into Bobby's hard backed chair, wincing as he sat. "All right. Let's get this bitch."

Sam gently cuffed Dean's hands behind his back, pausing when Dean jumped at the pull in his shoulder.

"Sorry," he apologized sincerely, clicking the cuffs shut. Lightly patting his brother's shoulder as he rose, Sam moved into position by the sacred circle. Catching Bobby's eye, then Dean's he waited for their joint nods before stepping into the circle and lighting the candle. Picking up the athame, he walked around the circle reciting, "With this sacred blade, I cast this circle. May it be a doorway beyond time and space. May it protect the good and bind the wicked in place."

Sam stopped in front of the altar and picked up the bell. "In the name of the Goddess, I cast my circle." Ringing the bell once, he exchanged it for the bowl of salt and walked around the edges of the circle clock-wise, sprinkling it around the circle as he recited, "I exorcise thee so that it may serve me well." Then he did the same with the bowl of water, walking counter-clockwise. He ended this trip by taking a sip from the bowl.

Dean shivered as he watched Sam use the athame to slice diagonally across his palm, allowing the blood to drip freely into the middle of the circle. Suddenly, he wanted to stop this. _Needed_ to stop this before it was too late. It was too much of a risk…Sam wasn't safe. It was all _wrong_. Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Something had seriously gone sideways. Large green eyes could do nothing but widen as Sam shouted, "Born of blood, I call thee forth! Come to this circle when I summon thee from hell, come to me when I summon thee with this bell!"

As soon as the tiny golden bell tinkled clear and high, every light in the house fell dark. Their only source of illumination came from the softly glowing candles casting shadows around the room. At first, the candle-shadows barely flickered, but then the dark shapes began to sway and dance in a rising wind generating from the center of Sam's circle. Hearing a low growl coming from Dean, Sam's head whipped to the right, trying to focus in the dim light. His brother was leaning as far forward as the cuffs allowed, head dropped low and face drawn in pain.

Teeth clenched tight, vocal cords suddenly released, Dean gasped, "It's coming…it's…"

Before Sam could call for his brother, the symbols drawn into the circle began to glow. Without warning, hanging directly in front of Sam, floated a fiery ball of flame that began as a low level red, but expanded and became brighter, turning yellow-white as the portal opened, spewing forth the angry demon. Loud, booming, malicious laughter filled the room, mingled with Dean's sudden cry as he threw his head back and struggled against whatever the agony the demon was causing him.

"Dean!" Sam called, toes resting on the outer edge of the circle.

Bobby yelled, "Sam! Stay inside the circle. You can't stop now!"

Sam hesitated, torn by logic and need. Dean's eyes stuttered open to reveal the demon's taint, the whites clearly showing around the ominous glow—jumpstarting Sam into action. Quickly, he knelt at the bottom of the circle and began mixing up the orris-root powder and the iron in a small wooden bowl. He'd already written the required words on the parchment paper in black ink so that he only had to roll it up, tie it with the black string and place it inside the bottle.

Crazy-insane laughter boomed behind him and he fumbled, trying too hard to shove the paper into the bottle before the demon could figure out what was going on.

"You really think that Bottle Spell will work on something like me?"

Lifting Sam into the air without actually touching him, the Culpa Moh focused its changing liquid gaze on him, one clawed finger still pointing in Dean's direction. Jostled, the bottle slipped from Sam's fingers just as the parchment cleared the rim. Drawing Sam within feet of its face, the demon examined the boy with a toothy smile.

"Tsk, tsk, Samuel. I think you dropped it. Now what? No one else can come inside the circle without setting me free."

But Sam couldn't answer, an invisible hand tightened around his throat, not completely cutting off the air, but reducing his words to nothing but a forced splutter.

Red-faced and straining against the power of the Moh, Dean grit, "Let him go, you bastard!"

Across the room, Bobby began the banishment spell without waiting, scribbling hastily on the four squares of parchment paper and lighting his candle. The demon kept its eyes locked on Sam while it spoke to Dean, completely dismissing whatever Bobby was doing.

"So, Dean, tell me. Was it worth it? Were these last few days of life worth your brother's life? I'm going to pop his head right off his shoulders, you know."

Pulling with all his might against the handcuffs, Dean spat, "Go to hell!"

"Oh, I plan to." It laughed. "And, I'm taking you _and_ your brother with me."

Meanwhile, Bobby burnt the first slip of paper, hastily reciting, "I banish thee with the power of Fire." Then tearing the second square of paper into tiny pieces, he cast them out the window, saying, "I banish thee with the power of Wind."

"Over my dead body," Dean was saying, exerting enough force on the cuffs to cut off the blood flow in his hands.

"But of course," the demon cooed, "I wouldn't have it any other way." Then he increased the pressure on Sam's throat, sealing away all the air. Sam's eyes bulged and his legs kicked beneath him in an attempt to wiggle free.

Bobby had just flushed the third piece of paper down the toilet, signifying the element Water, and was preparing to bury the last piece in the jar of dirt when a wall of energy crashed into him and sent him flying across the room into a bookshelf. Tumbling to the floor, the books and shelf came crashing down on top of him rendering him unconscious.

"NO!" Dean howled.

His heart hammered in his chest as fear threatened to overwhelm. _Sammy_. He was Sam's only chance. Yanking hard on the cuffs, he forced cold metal to bite into his wrists, cutting the skin and spilling warm rivulets of blood down his fingers and onto the floor. Blanking his mind, he continued to tug and wrench, using the slickness of his own blood to his advantage. _Save Sam _became his mantra as he pushed the rigid edges over his flesh, ripping and tearing skin without pause, teeth gritting as he worked, sweat drenching his face. Flesh and bone would not keep him from his goal, nor would pain and blood. Twisting, bending, and shoving at the manacles relentlessly, Dean wouldn't give in or give up—just pushed through it like it was nothing.

The Moh's black skin glittered with iridescent shades of blue and green as power flowed through it, stronger inside the circle, but not totally confined by any means. Sam's lips turned blue and he looked on the verge of passing out, sending Dean's panic soaring. Vaguely, in some corner of his mind, he was aware of air stinging his torn skin, of the damage he was causing himself, but it didn't matter—couldn't matter. Growling deep to override his mind's pain response, he pulled one hand free, sprang from the chair and dove for the shotgun propped near the doorway. Rolling with the weapon aimed straight at the chest of his enemy, Dean pulled both triggers, releasing both barrels.

The blast knocked Dean back, limbs in the air, landing with a breath-stealing thud. The blessed pellets missed Sam easily and dug deep into their target, knocking the creature off balance and shaking loose its grip on Sam. Crashing to the floor shoulder first, Sam sucked air in, relieved to be able to breathe again and grimacing from the pain of impact.

Hustling toward the bottle lying on its side, Sam snagged it and tried to pour the dry mixture from the bowl into the bottle without losing any of it. But the demon recovered too quickly and the bowl was ripped out of his hands, sailing out the same window Bobby had used earlier for the paper pieces.

"No!" he cried out in desperate frustration. _Now what,_ his brain screamed at him. Without the iron and orris-root, the binding spell wouldn't work.

Enraged and hurt, the Moh threw itself against the transparent walls of the sacred circle, trying in vain to break free. The wall sparked blue and threw the creature back again. Repositioning its wings neatly behind it, the demon changed tactics. Extending fingers toward Dean, who was hanging on the wall for support, it closed its eyes and lifted its half-man, half-demon face to the ceiling, summoning all its strength. Connecting to Dean, it drank its fill of his pain, sucked the marrow of his life away from where it stood still unbound. Dean fell to his knees and clawed at his head with his nails. Sam heard his brother's cries and knew he had to act fast. Scanning the room for Bobby, he spotted the still form covered in a mountain of books and broken shelving.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dean bent on the floor in rebellious resistance, the cost of his stubbornness plain in the way his body convulsed. His brother wouldn't be able to keep fighting for long. Sam's eyes darted between Bobby and a second shotgun lying just outside the circle where Bobby had once been. Decision made, he crossed the barrier of the circle, scrambling in his friend's direction and clutching the weapon as he went.

The bubble of the circle popped with an airy whoosh, releasing the spell and the Culpa Moh. Throwing aside books and splintered wood, Sam dug Bobby out and helped the bewildered man sit up.

"Bobby, the syringe!" Sam thrust out a hand.

Bobby shook his head, shaking loose the fog in his brain and reached into his pocket, grabbing the poison and handing it over to Sam.

Squeezing his friend's shoulder, Sam shouted, "Cover me!"

Bobby nodded as Sam shoved the loaded shotgun into his hands. Running full tilt for his brother, Sam only got a few feet toward his goal when the demon sent him flying back into the wall where Bobby's bookcase had once stood. Laughing again, it rose to its full height and towered over them, filling the room with its presence.

"Didn't I tell you you'd never win? I have to admit, this has been like taking candy from a baby. But it's been fun, more fun than I've had in ages." Turning toward Dean, it resumed feeding on his soul, his moans choking and garbled in his throat as he steadfastly kept both hands planted on the floor in front of him, remaining upright and fighting as long as he could.

Standing behind the creature, Bobby shoved the barrel of the gun into its back and pulled a single trigger, blasting ball-shaped holes into its spine. The Moh's deafening scream vibrated through the air, forcing Bobby to stumble back. The creature whipped around and stared the wide-eyed man down, picking him up and shaking him like a rag doll before tossing him out the window.

Meanwhile, Sam took full advantage of the distraction, his fluid, powerful movements putting him in front of Dean within seconds and allowing a momentary meeting of eyes. Sam shoved his brother onto his back and rested one hand on Dean's chest, the other holding the syringe near his ear. His brother's green gaze begged him to do it, to end it one way or another. Sam's features clouded with indecision and dread, heavy pants shaking his whole body, leaving him suddenly young, unsure and scared. Maybe Dean really _did_ want to die. Maybe he _wouldn't_keep fighting.

Features resolute and set, Dean whispered, "Do it, Sam. Do it now—Sam! Now!"

Keeping eye contact, Sam gave all his faith and trust to his brother and rammed the needle into his chest, pressing the plunger at the moment of contact. Screaming, Dean's head arched against the floor, his bloody hands grabbing at Sam's wrist, the instinctive reflex unstoppable.

"God!" he growled, bending and moving with the fire igniting through his veins. "Uhhn!" he cried when he had no words left. His face twisted and his boots dug into the wooden floor as his legs moved against the agony overtaking his body. He never let go of Sam's wrist, as his body died, he never let go. His voice became a gurgle as he coughed his last breaths, and, as he lost the fight, he looked up at Sam, fear not quite masked.

Sam pulled the needle out but didn't try to shake Dean's grasp loose, grabbed the cloth at his brother's shoulder with his free hand and let the tears come as he held on. Dean's blood was warm on his skin, the animalistic grunts were loud in his ears and time seemed to slow. The anguish etched in his brother's face and the way Dean thrashed around plunged Sam into the reality of the situation, causing his stomach to recoil at the gruesomeness of it all.

He hadn't expected dying to be so _visceral_ and _hard won_—his brother's body not going easily or quietly. _Dean always was a fighter_, the words bounced around in his skull like so much loose change. Watching Dean die wasn't anything he'd imagined it would be, worse than any nightmare he could ever conjure. He didn't get a chance to process it completely before being plucked from his brother's hold and pinned against the wall, leaving Dean's body seizing at his feet.

"What have you DONE!" the Moh demanded. "What did you do, boy?!"

A chilling snarl transformed Sam's lips as he spat, "I killed him, you _bastard_. I told you. You'll never have him…I won't _let_ you."

"No, you wouldn't dare…you couldn't." Its eyes dipped to Dean squirming on the floor and then back up to Sam. "It's a trick. You're not strong enough to do such a thing."

But even as the words dropped from the creature's lips, realization settled in, the bold plan becoming clear. "No. NO. You stupid, stupid boy!" it bellowed inches from Sam's scrunched face. "You will die for this. I'll KILL you—rip you apart like the weak sack of flesh you are!"

"No. You won't," came a calm voice from behind.

The demon turned just in time to see Bobby put the last remaining piece of paper in the glass jar, pour dirt on top of it and say, "I banish thee with the power of the Earth." The demon's eyes rounded with shock as the lid was slapped on and the black candle was kicked with one booted foot, spilling the melted wax and extinguishing the flame.

Sam fell to the floor, released as the Moh dissipated in an explosion of light and ash, leaving nothing of the demon behind. Chest heaving, mouth hanging open, Sam sat limply on the floor recovering…then his eyes fell on Dean. His brother had gone still, no sounds, movement or sign of life left in him. Crawling to Dean's side, Sam wadded his brother's shirtfront and shook him.

"Dean? Dean?" Two fingers pressed into Dean's jugular, but no beat, beat, beat, met Sam's fingertips. Motionless, no life left, only an empty shell. "No! Bobby, help him!"

Sam's plea cut Bobby to the bone as he knelt next to Dean. He tried not to focus on Dean's ashen face and purpling lips, tried not to recognize this as his friend who was like a son. He ignored the way mangled hands rested limply in place near the young man's heart where they'd fallen when Sam had been pulled away. Drawing out the antidote from his other pocket, Bobby gently placed Dean's hands at his sides and then plunged the needle into his chest, his own heart stuck in his throat, making swallowing or breathing difficult.

"Now what?" Sam asked, wetting his lips nervously and looking to Bobby for direction, never breaking his hold on Dean during any of it.

Sparing Sam a quick glance, Bobby positioned himself for chest compressions and growled, "Pray. Pray like your life depends on it."

Bobby counted out thirty compressions to each of Sam's two breaths, then repeated the cycle. One minute lapsed into the next and his stomach began to clench. But he didn't falter, just kept pumping Dean's chest and watching Sam give him breaths. Five minutes into it and he could no longer filter out Sam's constant chatter.

"C'mon, c'mon, Dean. Please, you can do this," he was saying. "I know you, you're strong. You won't leave me. Please, Dean, don't leave me."

Frantic, Bobby shoved at Dean's chest with such force that he knew the boy's ribs would be bruised, possibly inflicting more damage to the already broken ones. But, it wasn't working, nothing was working. Dean should be coming to by now. "C'mon, Son. Show me that Winchester stubbornness."

Bobby finished another 30 reps knowing the longer this went on the less likely they'd be getting their happy ending. Sam gave two breaths, then checked for breath sounds. Turning grief-filled eyes to Bobby, he shook his head no.

"Keep going, Bobby. We'll get him back, we will."

But several minutes later, Bobby's strength gave out and he knew he couldn't keep going. "Switch!" he yelled at Sam and the positions changed.

"One, two, three," he heard Sam's count begin. Then his turn to give breaths and check for progress. Nothing. Sam resumed his pleas, keeping count in his head.

"Dean, you can't go. You're all I've got left."

And if Bobby had thought he had used unnecessary force pumping Dean's chest, it was nothing compared to Sam's violent demand.

_Damn it, Dean. You have to fight, Son. _

Keeping up the 100 compressions per minute rate, Sam was rapidly becoming sweat-soaked and his chest was heaving with effort. Saving a life was physically demanding. Breathlessly, he yelled, "It's not working, Bobby. Why isn't it working?"

"I don't know. The antidote should've worked by now. Maybe his body's just too beat t'hell."

Bobby Singer sounded like a man giving up.

Danger glittered in Sam's eyes as he ground out, "No. No, don't talk like that. Dean's not a quitter. You hear me!?" Then to his brother he demanded, "Dean, don't you quit on me." Then after a minute, he yelled, "Breathe, damn it! Just breathe!" But the words were accompanied by fat tears dropping from Sam's eyes and splashing onto Dean's throat and face.

Sam shut everything else out. He couldn't give up, wouldn't give up. Dean had never let him down and he wasn't about to return the favor empty. One_, c'mon, man; _two_, I believe in you; _three_, please, Dean, please; _four_, don't leave me, don't leave me; _five_, you promised; _six_, you wouldn't let anything bad happen; _seven_, Dean; _eight_, don't…_

"Sam," Bobby's hand rested on his shoulder, "maybe you should stop."

"No damn way," Sam snapped with enough venom that Bobby removed his hand. "He doesn't get to do this. I won't let him do this."

"Sam—"

Sam huffed between pants, "Don't. Just don't." Then to Dean, he said, "Damn you, Dean, fight!"

At the end of his cycle, he looked to Bobby. "Please, help me."

Caving like a house made of cards, Bobby bent and forced two breaths into Dean's lungs, turned his head to the side and listened. No sounds, nothing. He shook his head and Sam started again.

"I trusted you, Dean. I know you don't want to die. You can't want this," Sam argued. "You just can't."

Finally, Sam sat backwards, spent, awkwardly taking Dean with him, his brother's chin tucked on his shoulder as he gathered him up with jelly arms.

"No-no-no, Dean, you have to be okay. Please, man. Wake up." Sam shook him_hard_, "You hear me? You do _NOT_ get to do this to me, you understand?!"

Sam buried his face into Dean and wept. Bobby dipped his head, hiding his own emotion-filled eyes. Sam's back moved with hitching sobs, the sounds muffled by Dean's shoulder. He couldn't believe this was it, that this was how it all ended. He didn't know how to let go of the only person he had left.

Cradling Dean's head with one hand, the other gripping the material at his brother's back, Sam pressed his cheek against Dean's and began to beg, "Oh God, please. _Please_give him back. You owe me this. You _owe_ me this. After everything, don't take my brother, too. I'll do anything, _anything_ if you'll just make him okay. Oh, God."

His heartache echoed in each touch, every expression, the very way he breathed in little jerks as if it hurt too much to draw in the air. "Dean. Dean, please," Sam kept repeating his brother's name fervently, uttered with absolute love and longing. His heart grew hard and filled with contempt as he railed at the heavens. "It's not fair! Why do you take everybody away?! Why!?" Tears covered his face, making it glisten and his nose ran, and he sniffed, "Not my brother, too."

A warm puff of air stirred Sam's hair and he froze. Every nerve alert, he waited. Another slight wisp of air whispered like gossamer across his bare neck. _God. Dean?_

Sam gulped and held his brother away from him, searching his face with barely contained anticipation. "Dean?"

Dean's lips parted, the bottom one twitching with the barest of breaths. Placing fingertips to the base of his brother's throat, Sam felt a faint, but steady beat flutter softly against his skin.

"Oh, thank God," he choked on the relief, almost making it a laugh as he pulled Dean into a crushing embrace and squeezed him with gentle ferocity.

"Sam-m."

Though broken and barely audible, the sound of his own name was beautiful to his ears. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and soothed, "It's gonna be okay. You're okay, now."

TBC

* * *

**A/N: Well, that's all she wrote folks! Okay, okay—yes, there will be an epilogue to follow…so not quite done yet. **

**Thank again, everyone, for reading and for reviewing even though it's take me way too long to finish this. I've enjoyed seeing your reactions and knowing your thoughts as we went along and I appreciate your patience. Hope it was all you expected it to be and satisfying.**

**Huge thanks goes out to my betas, Mady and Tidia, without whom this wouldn't read nearly so smoothly. Also, I'd like to thank Gaelicspirit, Sodakey and Thru Terry's Eyes for their willingness to read this through and give me advice or just some much needed support. It's good to have friends.**


	15. Chapter 15: Fire in the Sky

Chapter 15: Epilogue

**A/N#1:** Before we wrap up this final chapter, I feel obligated to mention a few things I feel are noteworthy. As you read this chapter, particularly toward the end, I'd like for y'all to keep a few things in mind:

I'm a romantic. There's no getting away from it or around it. I believe in love at first sight, I believe in love that comes hard and fast. I believe that almost everyone is capable of this kind of love when things are right and the people involved are right. I also believe that these moments change us and stay with us forever.

I believe that Dean is capable of loving like this. I believe anyone who could love his family as deeply as he does is capable of great love for others as well. I think the loss of his mother makes him more susceptible in some ways. And, I believe that Dean is capable of being whatever a woman needs him to be, including gentle and supportive.

Lastly, unless otherwise indicated, anytime I mention what things were like for Dean that first year after Sam left, I'm always, always thinking of Big Pink's **"Fire in the Hole."** To me, her version of these events is as good as canon until further notice. Well, except for the Bobby part (wink, wink). Even before episode 3.08, I've always held to the idea that Bobby knew the boys as kids. So, for those of you who have read her fic, you'll understand what I mean by Dean's hellish year after Sam left and maybe it'll make some events from the flashbacks more meaningful, knowing where he's coming from. For those who haven't—what're ya waitin' for? Go, shew, read Big Pink, you won't be sorry.

* * *

Chapter 15: Fire in the Sky (Epilogue)

_The introduction to his heartache began as a child  
So it's no wonder that he grew up to be so wild._

Sleeping like babies, both of them. Bobby hovered in the doorway, content to watch the boys peacefully sleeping. Well, okay…Sam _really_ didn't look all that peaceful propped up in Bobby's beat up recliner—legs akimbo—body in constant motion. The boy's giraffe legs dangled well past the footrest and strands of wavy hair fell across his face, obscuring his eyes. Bobby had the urge to brush them away as he'd done when Sam was a small boy. He listened to Sam's murmured "no," and wondered if he was reliving the scene in the living room. Bobby hadn't missed the way Sam's hands had shaken uncontrollably for nearly an hour after they'd settled Dean into Bobby's only bed.

The opposite of Sam, Dean lay motionless in the _exact_ same position they had placed him in—his stillness born of something deeper and more disturbing than simple sleep. It was hard to look at him without remembering. Bobby scoffed bitterly—it was hard to look at Dean period. His gaunt face was still a ghastly shade of pale, accentuating the hollows under his eyes and the two-day beard growth shadowing his jaw and chin. The damage he and Sam had inflicted trying to beat Dean's heart back into rhythm still made Bobby wince. Both wrists and one hand were completely swathed with gauze dressings. Dean had skinned himself breaking free from the cuffs.

It all had to hurt like hell, but for now, Dean was blissfully unaware.

Thirty-two hours and counting—Sam refusing to move from his brother's bedside and Dean silent and unmoving. The gentle rise and fall of Dean's bruised and battered chest was the only sign the boy was even alive. Bobby was beginning to worry about dehydration. Dean needed to wake…and soon.

After draping a ragged but clean quilt around Sam's restless form, Bobby hooked a hip on the edge of the bed. He grasped Dean's arm just above the bandages and firmly squeezed. The skin was cool and doughy—not a good sign. However, Dean's lips, though dry, held no hint of blue, his breathing and pulse were regular and steady. All good things. _Moderate dehydration at worst,_ Bobby thought.

"How's he doing?" Sam's voice startled him.

"Same as before." Bobby paused to run a hand over graying whiskers. "Listen, Sam…if he doesn't come out of this soon, we'll have to start thinking about taking him to the hospital—Feds or no Feds."

Sam sighed. Moving higher in the chair, his eyes fell on his brother. Worry lines creased his brow as he spoke. "Yeah, I know. How much longer can we wait?"

"Maybe 'til mornin'."

Sam nodded as he pushed forward on the wooden handle jutting out from the recliner. The footrest slammed into place with a bang. He leaned forward on his knees, stretched his back muscles, and sat back again, running a hand through his hair. His right leg began bobbing up and down in a steady, rapid cadence as he hung his head with a single shake.

A moment later he jumped up with a breathy exhale and stood in front of the window, hands on hips. But there was nothing to see but pitch black, not even enough light to illuminate the stack of tires piled less than five feet from the house.

"Sam—"

"I know, Bobby, I know. It's just…this _waiting_. I—"

"Sam," Bobby interrupted.

Sam broke off when he heard what Bobby had been trying to point out. A low, soft moan. Whipping around, Sam's face transformed at the sight of his brother's hand tightening, gripping the heavy comforter. Dean's head turned more fully into his pillow as another soft sound floated from his lips.

Sam tripped over his discarded shoes hurrying to his brother's side. "Dean? C'mon, man, that's it," he coaxed. "Wake up." Dean's cracked lips parted and his eyes rolled beneath their lids. "Dean—you with me?"

Dean's lashes twitched in closed-lid blinks and then parted into a sliver of green. Bobby choked on relief, grinned at the mirrored joy spreading across Sam's face. Dean's gaze shifted to meet Sam's and the younger man laughed loud, throwing his head back in happy release.

"What's so funny?" Dean's rough voice grated.

Sam grinned madly. "Nothin'. Man, Dean, it's just so good to see you awake." He absently thumped Dean on the chest, forgetting.

"Ow!_ Sam_," Dean gasped, hands shooting up to protect his chest.

Sam sucked air over his teeth, apologizing, "Sorry, man. I forgot. Are you okay?"

Dean drew his chin to his chest and studied the deep bruising coloring his skin in black purples and yellow-tinged browns.

"_Damn_. What the hell?" Confused eyes peered up from under drawn brows to question the two men sitting around him.

Sam's jaw muscle corded, lips making a rigid line as he swallowed.

Bobby threw a glance at Sam, then back again to Dean. Voice gruff, he answered, "That's what it took to save your life."

Staring out the window, Sam rubbed his palms on his thighs. A gesture of nervousness, of _worry_.

"Damn," Dean repeated. "You guys really beat the hell outta my chest. Someone's been eating his Wheaties."

"Don't," Sam snapped, springing from the bed, one finger poking the air in Dean's direction. "You died, Dean. _Died._ And we nearly didn't get you back…" Sam's eyes softened along with his voice, "so, just…don't make this into a joke."

Dean's half-grin fell away and he swallowed. Tension made the atmosphere thick, heavy before Dean finally broke the silence. "Well, I'm here now and…I'm not going anywhere, Sam."

The affirmation came quietly, silent apology evident.

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I know. It's just…"

The boys' eyes locked and held. Sam's sentence hung unfinished, as mutual understanding seemed to pass between them.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably in the wake of their exchange, unsure of what to say, finally settling on _his_ immediate concern. "I hate to interrupt this love-fest, but you need to get some fluids in you, Dean." Bobby stood. "The sooner the better."

The spell between the boys broke and Dean began struggling up, quipping, "I could go for a little room service."

"Well…just don't go getting used to it," Bobby groused as he and Sam levered Dean up, stuffing extra pillows behind his back.

As he left the room, Dean threw after him, "I don't know, Bobby. You might be kinda cute in one of those little maid outfits…might accentuate your _finer_ attributes."

Bobby gave him a stony glare, but as he turned his back, he grinned to himself and stifled a chuckle. It was good to have the boy back.

oooOOOooo

_So he protected his feelings in walls he imagined  
But castles crumble exposing the frightened child._

"So," Dean cleared his throat. "It's gone?"

"Yeah, it's gone. Can't you tell?"

Dean's head fell back against the pillow. For a minute, he said nothing…just stared at a fixed point on the ceiling. Flickers of emotion chased each other across his face, throat constricting as he swallowed them back down.

"Well, yeah," he began, voice still hoarse, "but I thought…I thought maybe..." Dean shook his head, one finger gesturing his trepidation as he let the sentence fall unfinished.

Sam blinked, found himself unable to deal with Dean's doubt. His brother's uncertainty said so much about how effective the demon's mind games had been. Plucking at his shirttail, Sam tried to think of the right thing to say. _But how do you make something like this okay?_ He tried to put himself in Dean's shoes. Tried to understand what it must be like to be unable to trust your own senses—your own mind. The forced violation Dean had suffered sickened him.

"It's over, Dean. We beat it—_you_ beat it." Because he needed to say it. Because Dean needed to hear it.

Some of Dean's anxiety fell away from his features, revealing genuine weariness.

"Better as a team, right?" Dean attempted a smirk, but it was as weak and as pallid as his face.

"Always." Sam moved as if to leave, saying, "Maybe I should go, let you rest."

"Sam, wait…you don't have to…I mean, uh, Bobby'll have a hissy fit if I go back to sleep before he gets back." The nervous shake in Dean's voice betrayed him along with the way his whole body tensed, every muscle in his face going rigid. The white edges of panic was clear in his eyes.

Sam stifled his surprise at the veiled request. Schooling his response, he became the epitome of casual calm. "Yeah…okay. I definitely don't want Bobby on _my _case."

Settling back against the worn, comfortable, recliner cushions, Sam let his eyes meander across the bed. They started at Dean's feet, worked up to his brother's face— then flitted away. His heart tugged_. When did I become scared to look at my own brother? _he wondered. Sam felt selfish and ridiculous. After all this time, after all his efforts to get Dean to open up, let his feelings show, and now with the door left standing wide open, all he could think of was how he wanted to slam it shut again—have his brother back strong and cocky as ever.

But, in all fairness, he knew his feelings came from the standpoint that this _felt_ more like eavesdropping. Dean had been broken, vulnerability forced rather than given. Sam felt like an interloper, witnessing his brother's exposed soul in this way, knowing it wasn't by Dean's choice. Sam had never wanted this and found himself wishing he could give it all back—all the images of what had been done to Dean, all the whispered secret fears during the delirium and the tender rawness left behind. If only he could just gather it all back up and stuff it back in and make Dean whole, or at least as whole as he'd ever been, then…

By the time Sam had worked up his courage, Dean had disengaged, the moment passing into uncomfortable silence.

Luckily, Bobby came to the rescue with a tray laden with a bowl of soup and a tall glass of iced water. Dean managed to empty the glass and polish off nearly half the soup. It didn't seem like much, but considering, Bobby and Sam were both pleased and viewed it as a small victory.

Dean fell asleep in the middle of Bobby's _enthralling_ update on current events. He had struggled to stay awake and in the loop, but his full belly and the quiet drone of Bobby's voice had been too much for his stoic stubbornness.

"I can't believe he fell asleep sitting up. What did you put in that soup?" Sam teased.

To his surprise, Bobby winked. "I snuck a couple of those white pain relievers you all had into it. Figured he'd never ask for them even though he plainly needed 'em."

Sam shook his head at Bobby's slyness and chuckled. "Nice."

"I thought so. Now get off your lazy butt and help me pull out some of these pillows."

Bobby and Sam carefully maneuvered Dean down flat, stacking the extra pillows at the end of the bed. They left him one pillow for his head and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. Unperturbed by the jostling, Dean curled onto his side, slipping a hand beneath his pillow with a sigh.

"Now that the worst seems to be over, you ready to take a break from this room?"

Sam kicked the recliner back. "Nah, I'm fine."

"Sam. You've been cooped up in here for two days. Why don't you go stretch your legs, get something to eat."

Biting the corner of his lip, Sam gave a shake of his head—disturbed by what he'd witnessed in the depths of his brother's eyes.

"He doesn't want to be alone, Bobby. Earlier…he all but _begged_ me to stay."

Eyebrows climbing high, Bobby was taken aback. Recovering quickly, he amended, "I guess that's understandable—considering. Well, you know where I'll be." Bobby gathered the tray and slipped quietly out of the room. Not ten minutes later, he was back with the soup remainders coupled with a thick bologna and cheese sandwich.

Placing a bracing hand on Sam's shoulder, he assured, "Give it time, Sam. He'll get through this. He'll be okay."

Sam flashed a grateful smile. "I hope you're right."

oooOOOooo

_Fire in the sky  
Can't you see that all my castles are burning  
Fire in the sky  
Won't you help me now my castles are burning_

**Three days later…**

"Ouch!" Sam cried, hopping awkwardly past the offending piece of heavy furniture. Sucking in his breath, he leaned over and rubbed his throbbing toe. _Why is it that such an inconsequential injury could hurt so damn bad? And why was Bobby's bathroom located at the opposite end of the house anyway?_ Careful to maneuver well away from the walls, he limped quietly past Bobby, snoring on the couch, and back down the hallway to the bedroom. Still cursing furiously in his head, he paused in the doorway, going stalk-still at the fevered sounds permeating the wee hours of morning.

"No, no… Please…"

Thrashing-sheets came to a full stop as Dean bolted upright with a strangled cry. Sam froze, hoping he'd go unnoticed. In the darkness, he could barely make out the shadowed outline of his brother sitting up in the bed. Dean's shoulders and chest were heaving with pants. A moment later, his head dropped into his hands.

"Just a dream," came Dean's muffled whisper. "Just a dream."

Sam's heart dropped, fully aware of what Dean's nightmares must consist of. The last three nights had been filled with much of the same, neither one of them getting much rest because of it. During the day, Dean had flat out refused to nap even though his body clearly craved, needed it to speed up the healing process. There were the usual "I'm fines" and "I've slept enoughs" despite the dark circles smudging his eyes and the permanent droop in his body.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face, through his hair—grunted when his injuries pulled with the movement. Gingerly, he eased his legs over the side of the bed and slouched forward.

Realizing there was no way his presence could continue to go unnoticed, Sam padded across the wooden floor, the bottoms of his feet betraying his stealth with each stick-slap on the wood. Dean didn't even bother to look up, probably was already aware of him before he'd taken the first step.

"You okay?" Sam asked, sitting in his makeshift bed.

"_Yes_, Sam." Said with what Sam was sure held more impatience than was intended, but the implication was clear. _Back off_. He'd been extra careful not to push his brother, trying to give him time and space to make some kind of peace with himself. But peace was elusive.

Dean surprised Sam with his next words. "We're leaving tomorrow."

"What?! Dean, no. Not yet. Hunting can wait just a little longer. You need to give yourself—your body time to heal."

Shaking his head, Dean protested, "I'm good, Sam. If I don't get out of here—" he looked off to the side and leaned back, hands resting on his thighs. "Sam… I can't do this, I just…I need…I need to _go_."

"Okay, okay." Sam rubbed the grit out of his eyes, brain casting about for a plan that would both give Dean what he needed and keep him out of the hunt a little longer. But he'd already been working on a plan, knew where they needed to go. The idea had been circling his mind a lot, but he wasn't sure if it would help or backfire, making things worse. He knew it would be tough for the _both_ of them. Dean wouldn't like it, for sure, but if it could help, it was worth it. Sam was willing to take the heat.

"But I'm driving," Sam issued his quiet demand.

"Whatever, dude. As long as it gets me out of here. I'm goin' friggin' nuts lying around all day with nothing to do. First thing in the morning?"

"Tomorrow after lunch."

Dean slumped again with a disgusted huff.

"C'mon, Dean. Two more home-cooked meals, that's all I'm asking. Plus, it'll give us time to swing Bobby around to the idea."

"All right! Okay. But as soon as lunch is over…no stalling for dinner and a nice little bedtime story."

Sam scoffed, "Hey man, I saw that twinkle in your eyes when Bobby told us about his first Wendigo."

"That wasn't a twinkle, dude. Those were tears of boredom."

"Yeah…you just keep telling yourself that, Dean—"

The words barely made it out of his mouth before he got a face full of pillow. With just as much speed, the pillow went sailing in the opposite direction, forcing Dean to duck.

"Hey!" he grunted. "Injured!" Dean pointed to himself with one hand while holding the other up for protection.

Sam rolled his eyes even though the gesture would undoubtedly go unseen in the dimness. "So, think you can go back to sleep now that _that's_ settled?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Trust me, _so_ not a problem."

Sounds of shifting bodies, sheets and springs filled the air as they settled back down. Dean ended up on his back while Sam curled as much of his body into the chair as he could—tossing and turning until he twisted his body into a semi-comfortable position. For several minutes, he lay listening for signs of Dean sleeping or not sleeping. For evidence of an inability to sleep or the herald of new nightmares.

But the now familiar creak-groans of Bobby's house were the all there was. Somewhere outside a night bird screeched and coyotes yipped. The windowpane rattled when a sudden gust of wind beat against the glass, then fell into quiet submission once again. Soon sleep was tugging and pulling him away—warm, fuzzy and welcome. Right on the cusp of bliss, Dean's voice jerked him back.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?" he grunted.

"Just, uh…thanks."

Surprised and sleep muddled, Sam asked, "For what?"

"For not pushing. For giving me time and…for not insisting we stay."

Sam blinked. Then, meaning every syllable, answered back, "You're welcome."

oooOOOooo

_In solitude he couldn't deal with his own existence  
The burning questions in the castles have still remained._

The next day the boys began packing their things right after breakfast so the rest of the day could be spent doing other things. Dean helped, still stiff and slow, hissing through his teeth when he moved too fast or bent too sharply. In the end, Sam did most of the packing and insisted on carrying everything out to the Impala himself.

Just before lunch, Dean hobbled out to do a systems check on his baby, prep work for hitting the road. Sam didn't protest, knowing it would give his brother something positive to do and _him_ time to pull Bobby aside, run the idea by him and enlist his help.

Bobby peered intently into his mug of coffee, seeming to look for answers in the dark brew.

"I don't know, Sam. It might be wise to just let it alone."

"Yeah, I know. But, what else am I gonna do, Bobby? He's not sleeping at night and his appetite's still nonexistent. He has to deal with it, one way or another. It's past time he put it to rest."

Bobby shrugged. "You know your brother better than I do. If you think it might work, then maybe it will. Just…be careful, Son. Don't push him too hard. Some things never heal _completely_ and you may have to accept that—for your sake and his."

Lower lip sucked in-between his teeth, Sam pressed a hip against the kitchen counter, arms folding. He was stared out the small kitchen window, concern etching the lines of his face. He'd been periodically tracking Dean's movements as he and Bobby talked. Sam watched as Dean straightened from under the Impala's hood, winced and brought up a hand to rub his shoulder.

Pushing away from the counter, he breathed in deeply through his nose, looked at Bobby and said, "I know…believe me, I know how wrong this could go…but, I think it's worth the risk."

"Okay." Bobby nodded. "Okay. In the meantime I think a long, after-lunch nap can be arranged…and I'll start collecting some easy, lightweight hunts for _later_."

"Good, because I don't think I can keep him cooped up much longer. Just, no ancient demons for a while, okay?"

Bobby smiled. "You got it."

oooOOOooo

_God only knows how he searched in vain for the answers._

Hours later found them minutes from their destination—and Sam questioning his own sanity the closer they got. He wasn't sure _he_ was up to this, ready to put _Dean_ through it all. Nervousness snaked through his stomach, twisting it tight. He couldn't help flinching every time his brother shifted even the tiniest bit. Dean—who was slumped low in his seat, sunglasses in place, head tilted sharply to the side—was oblivious exactly as Sam had planned. He should feel bad, he really should, but he doubted he'd have gotten them this far any other way.

About a half hour ago, Sam had been sure he'd run out of luck when Dean began fidgeting through more latent memories. His brother had called out twice, making Sam feel like an even bigger heel for what he was about to do. But Dean had quieted with just a few soft spoken words and a strong grip on his shoulder.

Making a right turn off the main highway, Sam pulled into the drive and parked the car where it would be safely out of sight. Luckily, today was an off day and the place would be closed to visitors and staff. Sam took a breath. Time to put on the show of his life.

Reaching over, he shook Dean. "Dean. Come on, man. We're here."

Dean jerked awake at Sam's touch, head popping up. Wincing, he kneaded his neck muscles, twisted his head from side to side and mumbled, "Here, where?"

Sliding the sunglasses off, he blinked and pushed up in his seat, face slackening as he looked out the windshield. Hazel eyes widened at the red-shingled monstrosity looming over them, shot to Sam and back again, rapidly blinking as if that could erase what he was seeing.

"What the h—"

"Just take it easy." Sam tried to make his worlds calm and even. "It's not a dream…I brought you here."

Confusion, fear and the first vestiges of realization crept across Dean's face, finally settling into horror and indignation.

"Get me _out_ of _here_," Dean growled. "_Now_." Voice low and dangerous.

"Wait a minute, Dean. Just lis—"

"God_damn_ it, Sam!"

Dean lunged for the keys, but Sam snatched them away seconds before his fingers made contact and stuffed them in his pocket.

"Dean, just please listen—"

"Sam, I'm _warning_ you—"

"—please, Dean. Hear me out—"

"How could you bring me here? Give me the keys, Sam, or I swear to _God_, I'll start _walking_—"

"Dean—" Sam grabbed his brother's sleeve, held on tight. "Damn it, Dean, just give me a chance. That's all, just a _chance_."

As soon as Sam's fingers pressed into his brother's flesh through the heavy coat, Dean froze. Shooting a glare at Sam, he yelled, "A chance for _what_, Sam! Don't you think I see this in Technicolor every single night?"

Dean's nostrils flared. His face was granite, but he had stopped trying to get out of the car.

Sam rushed on. "And don't you think _I_ know that, Dean?! Man, I _know_. Trust me, I do. I _hear_ it _every_ night. Dude, I see it in your _eyes_ every damn _day_. It's not getting better—_you're_ not getting any better. You have to face this, Dean. Please, I'm begging you. What have you got to lose?"

Dean dropped his chin to his chest, eyes clamped shut, grip on door handle going _whitewhitewhite_, but he didn't move to get out. Sam could feel Dean shaking through the thick material of leather, could feel the tension coming off him in waves. His breathing came in harsh gusts, sweat blanketed his face, but he didn't pull away, just continued to sit, jaw muscles working in beats, each swallow slow and stiff. Clearly he wanted to make a break for it, but for whatever reason, didn't.

Beginning to get worried, thinking maybe he'd made a mistake, maybe he'd pushed too fast, Sam questioned, "Dean?"

Dean shook his head "no." Short and quick. _Not ready_.

Sam nodded, but didn't let go, instead, dug in and got a more secure hold on his brother's forearm, willing him to stay, wanting him to _feel_ he was right there with him.

They sat like that until Sam's own muscles protested the tension, the lack of moving, the sustained struggle of _stay_.

The sinking afternoon sun glinted in Dean's hair and perspiration drip-dropped off the sides of his face, catching stray beams of light as it fell. Sam focused on the starkness of Dean's freckles illuminated by the paleness of his skin. He tried to remember how his brother had gotten that tiny scar embedded on his left cheek, fully remembered how he'd come by the long, jagged, still-raw groove stretching across his temple into his hairline, as well as the other recent abrasions and bruises running along his cheeks and jaw. Strangely, Sam found himself thinking that Dean was built like Dad, but his face held Mom's delicate features. _Huh_.

He studied Dean closely, gauging the undercurrent of emotions by watching his brother's face carefully. Everything he needed to know would be found there—which is probably why he'd been having trouble looking at Dean directly since this mess started. But if he was asking Dean to do this impossible thing, this cruel thing, then the least he could do was man up and face it with him. They'd do this together, get through this together—if Dean would allow it.

"I don't want to be here, Sam," he simply said.

Mouth going dry, Sam answered, "I know. But I think it will help."

Dean slid his eyes slowly over and up to Sam's. Raw pain and misery reflected from within, his biggest tell always his eyes. Sam forced himself to keep steady when he wanted to flinch away. He could still feel Dean's tremors tripping under his fingers.

"All right. Why are we…_here_?" Dean's voice stretched thin, broke at the end.

"You're going to have to trust me. Okay?" Sam paused and waited for a nod before continuing, "I want you to show me."

Sharp, bright flashes supernova'ed in a sea of green.

"_Sam_." Dean whisper-choked his brother's name. His bottom lip jumped and his chin trembled as he opened his mouth, sucked in a breath, forcing out, "I don't _want_ this."

A chasm opened up beneath Sam, threatened to swallow him whole.

"Just trust me, Dean. Please."

_Bastard. I'm such a bastard. Please forgive me, Dean. It's for your own good._

A short, grudging nod spurred Sam on.

"Show me. Show me where it happened."

oooOOOooo

_Now castles crumble exposing his naked flames, yeah._

It felt like slow motion climbing out of the car, surreal slow. Dean could _feel_ Sam's attention drill into him, almost suffocating in intensity. Warm California weather made their coats and over-shirts unbearable, so they both stripped down to their t-shirts, tossing the extra clothing back through the open windows. Sam ran around to the trunk and fished out their canvas duffle—pre-packed with flashlights, sawed off shotguns, an EMF detector and other ghost hunting necessities—before joining Dean by the front bumper.

"You think we'll need all that just to take a trip down memory lane?" Dean asked.

"Can't hurt to be prepared."

Dean shrugged, schooled his face into smooth resolve, turned toward the gaudy excess of a house and began walking. Tension in each step, back rigid-straight, Dean led Sam past the lush flowerbeds and rows of emerald hedges, walked past the visitors' entrance and strode purposefully to the side of the mansion. A low burn spread through his stomach, churning acid and flipping somersaults, the moment he began searching for the right one.

Face turned up to examine the rows of windows high above, he stopped beneath a large gabled dormer jutting out from the house. Sam's shoulder pressed into his, lending support by proximity. Dean's skin stretched tight across his face and he fisted his hands at his sides. A wave of nausea hit him, crawled up his throat and forced him to swallow hard to get it back down, heart hammering in his chest.

With a curt nod, Dean said, "That's it." Gaze ticking down to the ground, he gestured to the area in front of them. "Except, back then, this section was still part of the parking lot."

"_Grab my hand!"_

"_No, I can't. I can't!"_

The memory echoed loudly in Dean's ears. He reached up to drag his thumb across his lower lip, a distraction of little effect. Beside him, Sam stood staring up at the window, squinting even though they were well protected from the sun, perhaps trying to envision the scene in his own mind's eye. Perhaps struggling with his own feelings about being here.

Very much aware of _Sam_ and _this place_, Dean shifted his weight and dug his fists into his pockets, looking away and around the property.

Sam produced the EMF and began sweeping the area, surprising Dean with his calm, clinical approach. Nothing happened. No red lights, no high-pitched squeals or squeaks. Nada. Sam tossed the black homemade gadget back into the bag, turned to Dean. "Ready to go in?"

Dean's knees weakened, a sickening curl of dread coiling in his stomach.

"_In_?" His eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward. "You mean you want to go in there? Why?!" His shoulders climbed, but hands stayed buried, "What's it going to prove? Huh, Sam? I already know it wasn't really her…that she's…that she's not _here_. I know, okay? So, can we just _go_ already?"

"I want to go in, Dean. Humor me."

Dean walked a short distance away and gave Sam his back. He shook his head in frustration. Little brothers could be so…_stubbornfrustratingimpossible_. He pulled his hands from his pockets, propped them loosely on his hips, prepared to refuse the request.

"Maybe I need this, too, Dean." Sam's quiet statement was a request, a plea that couldn't be refused.

_Unfair. That's not fair, Sammy. Don't make me do this._

"_Please_, Dean."

He turned back to find Sam giving him doe-eyes. His heart pulsed, throbbed. He knew he was defeated.

Hands waved in the air as he gave in. "Fine. Fine. I think there's a side door we might be able to use."

It took ten minutes to break in, find the right combination of rooms and staircases and climb to the top floor. His recent physical condition made it all the more difficult and ridiculous. Bullheaded and determined, he made it all the way to the top of the second wrong turn before admitting he needed a minute—it came down to that or risk losing face by passing out. By the time they made it to the top landing of the _correct_ staircase, he was dizzy, weak—sweat streaming down his face, neck, and back, pools of it collecting under his arms.

His thigh muscles on fire, he stood slightly bent, arm pressed against his ribs, trying to stifle heavy huffing by breathing through his nose. Barely out of breath, Sam stood next to him, one hand resting on his shoulder.

"Y'alright?" Sam drawled.

He nodded. "Yeah…just a little outta shape, I guess."

Sam clapped him on the back and started down the long, dim hallway. Seeing his brother drawing nearer to the window, a surge of fear sliced through Dean, pushed him to catch up. He had long since destroyed the only supernatural presence in the mansion, but seeing Sam, _his Sam_, walking down _that_ hallway to stand next to _that_ window left him chilled to the bone. Unaware of the hopscotch going on inside Dean's chest, Sam leaned _forward_, running a hand along the curtains and looking down at the ground below.

_Sam, move away from the window. Please, just back away._

"So, when you fired at the ghost," Sam began, seemingly oblivious, "Hannah was standing here—in the middle—when you shot her, right?"

_Aw, Sam. Can we just not talk about it anymore? Are you still angry? Is that what this is? Punishment?_

"Well, yeah. I guess."

"You guess? Think, Dean. How did it happen—_exactly_?"

_Okay, you're still pissed at me. I get it, but do we have to do this?_

"Can we just _not_ do this?"

Sam's face didn't waver. He drew himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders.

"Dude, it was a long time ago."

No concessions. Sam was waiting for his answer.

"I don't remember, _exactly_." Dean glanced at the door he'd been pinned to all those years ago and had to squelch the urge to shiver.

"_Hey! This what you want?" _Hannah's voice echoed through his mind._ "Let him go and come and get it you freaky bastard."_

Dean shook off the flash of memory to see Sam pulling at his chin, analyzing and pulling facts from his _never forgets a freakin' thing _brain.

"So," Sam pressed, "this is the door you were pinned against…right?" Sam looked at him for confirmation.

"Yeah…but what difference does—"

Sam grabbed his shoulders and scooted him in front of the door, "you were here. And…uh," Sam quickly jogged back to the window. "Hannah was here."

_Oh, God. Please, Sam. Don't. You don't want to know this._

"Right?"

Eyes begging Sam to stop, Dean stood mute, skinning crawling with a brief sense of déjà vu.

"Just humor me, Dean. Okay?"

Dean smirked, looking down and away. Images from that night flickered through his mind…too fast, at first, to hold onto, but getting clearer.

"And, the ghost was where?" Sam's persistent voice meshed, tangled, mingled with mental pictures of that night, Dean no longer able to hold them back.

_An invisible hand cut off his words. No longer able to breathe, he clawed at his throat. Suddenly he found himself sliding up the door until he no longer touched the floor, all the way up until his head bumped against the top and bent his neck at an odd angle. Gasping, kicking and fighting against his attacker didn't seem to have effect. Spots began dancing before his eyes. Vaguely, he was aware of Hannah's voice somewhere below him._

"_Hey! This what you want? Let him go and come and get it, you freaky bastard."_

_The pressure around his throat eased, allowing him to gulp in fresh air. Opening his eyes, he saw Hannah standing in front of a large window that ended the hallway in top to bottom glory. She was holding the bones in the air, an offering in exchange for him._

"_No, Hannah—don't!"_

"Dean!? Dean! Stay with me," Sam enunciated clearly, snap and crackle in his voice, brows dipped in worry.

Dean blinked, only seeing Sam standing before him. He realized his hand hovered at his temple, fingers twitching. He let the hand drop and focused on Sam. His brother's face relaxed and he let go of his arm, taking a step back.

"Think, Dean. Where was the ghost?"

Dean closed his eyes.

_The spirit hovered closer to Hannah. To her credit, she stood firm, waving the goodies in front of her, tempting it closer to her…and further away from Dean._

"On the left, over there."

Sam shuffled quickly to where Dean was pointing. "Here?" he asked.

"Yeah, that seems right."

"But Dean, if the spirit was here and Hannah was there…how could you have possibly hit her with the rock salt?"

Dean didn't even hesitate. "Because it went for her and—"

"—and you're _that_ lousy of a shot?" Sam interrupted incredulously. "You couldn't take it out _before_ it reached her?"

"No," Dean spat. "It was charging her…and, just as I fired, she dodged toward me."

Ripples of anxiety buzzed through him, pulse thumping in his ears—he started to feel a little dizzy.

Sam seemed not to notice that either.

"She moved _towards_ you. So you're saying it was her fault?"

"What?! No! Hannah did _nothing_ wrong." _What the hell, Sam?_ His chest tightened and he struggled to keep it together, old wounds becoming fresh and new. He could hear Hannah's screams loud in his ears. The sound of breaking glass was all around him. Dean blinked and tried to push it away.

"Okay, then that makes _you_ a lousy shot." Sam walked toward Dean nonchalantly, taking his time.

"Sam," Dean growled in warning. His brother knew better than to question his skills. It was the one thing he _always did right_.

Holding his arms out, palms up, Sam asked, "Well…which was it, Dean? Either you are a lousy shot or it was her fault for getting in the way." Sam was now directly in front of him, gaze unwavering and voice determined. "Whose fault was it, Dean? Huh? 'Cause we both know you're an _excellent_ shot. Did you shoot her on purpose?"

"Don't be stupid, Sam." Dean leaned away, tight-lipped, jaw rigid. _Why was Sam doing this?_ Inside he was falling apart, overwhelmed by being here and by his brother's intrusive questions.

"Then it _must_ be her fault, Dean." Sam's voice was loud and prosecution provocative.

Dean shook his head, replaying each step in his mind. Trying to get a clear picture, aware he was breathing funny, strange sensations flooding his body, fingers going numb.

_A ghostly wail filled the room as the creature charged the cowering girl._

_No time to think, Dean drew the shotgun up and fired at the same moment Hannah tried to dodge the attacking ghost—putting herself directly in Dean's sights. Rock salt blasted through the spirit and hit Hannah full-center of her chest, knocking her through the window in an explosion of glass and screams. _

"_NO!"_

_Exploding glass. Hannah's screams. His screams. Blood, so much blood on his hands, everywhere, everywhere. Always there's so much blood._

Flinching back to the present, Sam was crowding him, toe to toe, egging him on, talking in that stuffy, logical, refusing-to-see-reason voice. How much time had he lost?

"It had to be Hannah's _fault_!" Sam was saying. Poking one finger into Dean's chest, he picked up volume and repeated, "If you didn't shoot her on purpose and if you're not a lousy shot, then it _had_ to be her fault for getting in the way." Dean's palms pressed against his brother's chest, trying to keep him at bay. "Can't you see, Dean? It was her fault all along. She was the one—"

Sam's words hammered at him and the rising tide of grief started to _unravel_ somewhere inside—stretching, fraying, coming loose.

_Fault. Who's fault, Dean? Who's fault? Not Hannah's fault. Never hers._

_Fault. Blame. Guilt. _

_Screams. Blood. Death and decay everywhere. _

_Everywhere. It follows me everywhere._

_Stains everything I touch._

Suddenly, he couldn't get enough air or swallow, his hands started shaking and his insides quaked. The room was closing in _tooclosetoocosetooclose_. His ears were ringing. What was happening to him?

_Long, dark hair billowing out in the rising wind, she hesitated, then said, "Dean, I'm scared. I don't want to die."_

_I don't want to die._

_Die._

_Everyone dies._

_Everyone..._

_but me._

"—that's what we need to decide, here. Are you listening to me? Dean? Answer me!"

"She dodged, I fired. It-It just happened." His fingers were wadded in Sam's shirt, twisting and jerking as he tried to push his brother away. But Sam wasn't letting go, his strong grip had wrapped around Dean's upper arms, squeezing and pressing. And maybe that was good because he wasn't so sure his gelatin knees could keep him on his feet.

"Whose fault was it?!" his brother shouted again, relentless.

"_Sam_."

"Whose. Fault. Was. It?!"

"_Nobody's_!" He shouted back. Eyes begged for mercy as his voice cracked, "It was nobody's fault."

Resignation heavy in his words, in his soul. His legs gave out from beneath him and he slid to the floor. Sam made the decent gentle. Fat tears trailed down Dean's cheeks and his shoulders hitched with the emotion he'd struggled so hard to contain. Ultimately, it was a losing battle. Hugging himself, he withdrew against the door, trying to pull away and hide. Hide his guilt, his shame…his loss and fear. All the things that should stay hidden, all the things Sam should never see.

Radically, Sam's demeanor changed. His warm hand squeezed Dean's shoulder, pulled him forward. His little brother rubbed circles on his back and, voice soft and compassionate, he murmured, "It's okay, Dean. You're okay."

Dean tried to speak but his throat closed up around the words. A few seconds felt like minutes until he finally forced out, "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Dean. You don't hav—"

"I should've told you," Dean kept going, trying to say what had been kept inside for so long. "She was _your friend_ and now she's gone…because of _me._Maybe it wasn't my fault directly, but..."

Sam pulled away to make eye contact, voice hitching, "But don't you_ see_, Dean? I don't blame you. You did _nothing_ wrong. _She_ did nothing wrong. It just…_happened_."

Dean sucked in an unsteady breath, avoided Sam's gaze and insisted, "I should've never…should've never gotten her involved."

"Maybe. But how could you have known what would happen? Could you have stopped her from coming up here on her own? You didn't even know until she was already in trouble."

Miserably, he shook his head. "But I'm the one who brought her into it. Me, Sam. No one else made that decision. I could've kept her out of it from the beginning."

"Give me a break, Dean. We do it all the time. We're not superheroes, man…sometimes we need help. Without Hannah, more people could've gotten hurt before you even figured out where all these," his hand waved at the air around them, "hallways and stairs go…and once she was involved…Hannah always was curious about everything."

Dean's fingers upturned in a gesture of helplessness, head dipping.

"Truth is…I _wanted_ her with me. I liked being with her—and she trusted me, Sam. Believed me when I told her about what we do… didn't look at me like I was a _freak_."

Head tipping back, Sam peered through veiled lashes at Dean, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "So you enjoyed her company, Dean. So what? There's nothing wrong with that. Don't feel guilty for being attracted to her. She was a great girl and no one can blame you for being lonely and needing someone."

Dean met his brother's eyes, searched for any hint of blame or deceit—found none.

Sam shrugged, frowned as he continued, "Maybe you should blame _me_ for not being here. I mean, you know, if I had been here instead…maybe none of this would've happened."

"No, Sam. Don't do that. This was _my_ hunt, _my_ call."

"Yeah, it was, Dean. But this," Sam gestured toward the window, "was not _your_ fault, either. You did the only thing you could've. You've got to stop punishing yourself for this. Things happen—you _know _that. It's time to let yourself off the hook. For _all_ of it…'cause, you don't need to apologize to me…about_ anything_…I understand. Okay?"

Dean finally dipped his head in acquiescence, one brow arching as he pursed his lips. With a final squeeze-pat, Sam let go of his neck and settled in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Wiping away the wet streaks marring his cheeks, Dean sniffed, sat back, legs stretching out beside Sam's. He tilted his head toward the window, giving his weight to the solid wood behind him. The cold penetrated his thin tee-shirt and stole some of the heat from his body.

Outside, shadows lengthened, the deep gold-orange of early dusk painted everything with a heavy hand, setting the world on fire. Stunning. He'd forgotten how beautiful sunset around here was.

Sam rolled his head toward him.

"You gonna be okay?"

Thinking the question over, he wasn't sure what to say. Just being here again triggered so many feelings and memories he'd forgotten. Some bad, some good. Some stuff the Culpa Moh had _purposefully_ neglected. Maybe it really hadn't been his fault. Maybe Sam was right. But maybe it would never feel right the way Sam wanted it to, either.

"As okay as it can ever be," he finally answered.

Frowning, Sam nodded. "I guess I can live with that."

Dean could see his little brother from the corner of his eye—Sam was dying to ask a question he wasn't sure he should ask.

"What, Sam?"

"Sooo…you really _liked_ her?" Sam nudged him as he asked it.

One shoulder lifted then dropped. "What's not to like? She was sweet, funny and sexy as hell. And, even better, she didn't think I was fruit loops. I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't with her."

Sam's fingers laced together across his knees, pointing and moving as he talked. "You think it could've been something…_more_?"

Dean snorted. "Nah. She'd have wised up sooner or later. Can you imagine a girl like her taking me home to Mommy and Daddy?"

"I don't know… Thing is, you'd have_ liked_ for it to have been something though…right?" Sam said, tapping Dean's knee with his own.

Dean didn't answer at first. Staring into the distance, a wash of memories, watercolor-pale, began to brighten and take form. Things he hadn't felt he _deserved_ to remember and others that just hurt too damn much to remember.

The last night they spent together was one of the hardest, most bittersweet. Walking through a park near the San Francisco Bay, they had talked for hours, walking side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing. He'd been shocked by his openness with her, how easy and comfortable it had been to just be _Dean_. Her acceptance of his life—his job—was confusing at first, unexpected. There were no pretenses to be kept up, no expectations to be met, and it was as liberating as it was strange.

As they talked, they recognized themselves in each other. The steadfast loyalty and love they held for the important people in there lives. That same willingness to be lost for the sake of another, to disappear and cease to exist. With Hannah, he'd found commonality, mutuality, sameness of self and yet…_not_. There was a duality there, too. Where he was all hard lines, buried secrets and shadowed darkness, she was gentle bends, open book and illuminant innocence.

_Not realizing he'd been lost in thought, he jumped when she touched his arm. The bronzing sun picked up the red-gold highlights in her hair, making it glow and shimmer, changing colors as it shifted with the wind. She smiled up at him, joy of life, joy of his company, didn't really matter which, shining in her eyes. It made her even more beautiful, more desirable. Caught up in the moment, he'd grabbed her into his arms, pulled her under the canopy of a Kwansan tree and told her so. She'd blushed and looked away, uneasy with the compliment. _

_Wanting her attention back on him, he'd said something clever, making her laugh full-throated, head pitched back. And, he'd wanted her. Wanted the feel of her on him, wanted her to take away the coldness, the bitter loneliness that had settled into his bones since taking this job and seeing Sam happy in his new life. Sam, who had looked content, safe. Sam, who didn't need him anymore. _

_But Hannah did. Her eyes were lit up with need. Need to be held. Need to be protected. Need for him. His aching heart recognized her need and answered it. _

_She tasted like cotton candy and he hadn't expected that. Pink, fluffy cotton candy. Maybe it was her lip balm or maybe it was something else, he didn't know, but he liked it. Her lips were sweet, juicy and soft. Fingers came to rest alongside his face, her thumb running across the apple of his cheek in delicate strokes. And he liked that, too—found himself leaning into her touch. He deepened the kiss and felt her tentative exploration of his mouth, and then hesitation—maybe from inexperience, maybe from resistance. _

_Pulling away, he looked down at her to see which it was. She looked back. Her eyes held a hint of nervousness, of vulnerability. And there was softness there, a tenderness none of his previous lovers had held. She smiled, cheeks blushing pink as he continued to stare._

_The cavernous hole in his heart that had started with Mom, culminated that first hellish year without Sam and kept on growing with every passing day, week, and month since seemed to ease. Something about this girl made it ache a little less. Her easy companionship? Her willingness to give of herself? Maybe her total lack of judgment of him? He didn't know what equation made this moment, this time different, special, but fierceness for this girl he barely knew ravaged his heart, made him feel dangerous and possessive. And, while these feelings terrified him, he had never been more exhilarated._

"_What?" she'd asked when the stare became prolonged, intense._

_The corners of his mouth pulled up into a grin. "Nothing. Just…you're beautiful."_

"_So are you," she whispered back, without reserve, somehow meaning something more than just his face. It took him by surprise and warmed the neglected things he'd tried to ignore. Things he pretended didn't exist or matter._

_Needs and desires he'd pushed away and down deep overcame him. His soul stirred within, dared him to want things he'd never hoped to have. Uncertain, he covered by doing what he knew had worked in the past._

_But this time when he dipped in to cover her mouth with his, their noses bumped awkwardly and nervous, self-conscious laughter burst from both of them. His cheek came to rest against her forehead, her giggles tripping along his jaw. _

_She tilted her head away from his, smiling. Tender fingers traced the edges of his hair, tickled behind his ears and tugged at the hair there. She drew him slowly back to her, hesitating just before their lips met. A tremor shook her and he wondered if it was from cold or anticipation, but the thought fell away when she closed the distance between them._

_At first, her shyness made her efforts graceless, clumsy, but then her body pressed close and her mouth began working in perfect tandem with his, igniting a tingle in his stomach that did funny things to his heart. The heart-thing was new and he wasn't sure he liked it. It almost hurt and yet felt good and right. It was scary and wonderful all at the same time. The blood pounded in his ears—through his veins, arteries and every part of his body. His skin tingled—he felt so alive._

_Hannah's hands slipped beneath his shirt, got lost in the folds of it, finally ended up at his stomach. She kneaded his ribs then moved up to his chest, around to his back, to pull him down, urging him closer. Her touch left sparks of sensation, his skin greedily drinking in the warmth of it. His guard fell away; he wanted this more than he wanted the safety of holding himself back. Wanted to crawl inside her and lose himself. Heal me, his heart begged._

_He nipped at her full, lower lip, trailed kisses down and across her collarbone. He sucked at the base of her neck, breathing in the vanilla overtones of her perfume, and laughed in his throat when she went weak against him with a gasp-sigh. His chest swelled and his stomach clenched that he could do that to her. Suddenly, it mattered a great deal to him, this power to please her. It heightened the experience and, yet, made him more uncertain of himself. But then she'd whispered his name against his skin and he lost the ability to think. Only to move._

_Still sheltered by the drooping limbs of the cherry tree and falling dusk, they sank to the ground, lost in a moment of touching, tasting, and breathing—blossoms dropping all around them like pink rain. Explosions of white, thrills of heat and consuming need filled him. He offered himself to her, hummed with pleasure when she slid a hand passed his waistband and grazed the naked flesh of his hip. Electricity jolted from limb to limb and he craved skin on skin contact. Shaking, hurried fingers fumbled at their clothes, his chest pressing deeper into hers. The horns on his charm accidentally dug into their flesh and they both grunted in response. The reminder of who he was and where they were was just enough to let him regain himself. To remind them both of their all too public surroundings._

_Flushed and panting, they reluctantly pulled apart, stared at the offending piece of jewelry with a mutual groan. Their bodies jumped with laughter, his head falling to her shoulder and resting there until he could recover from his upward spiral—body still weak with crazy-strong desire. Conscious of his heavy weight crushing down on her, he braced one hand on either side of her and rolled off to lie in the cool grass. Turning to his side, his chest pressed against her elbow—not yet ready for a total loss of contact._

"_You want to go…somewhere?" she'd asked._

_The trip in her voice told him she wasn't used to making such suggestions. He'd lifted his head and found her rich, soulful eyes devouring him. But he saw more than physical need there, too, and in that moment, he knew he'd only hurt her. She wasn't one of his one-night stands and, right now, he wasn't free to offer much more. He traced a finger along her jaw and over her lips, wishing things could be different._

_Leaning in, he pressed his forehead to hers, moaning his regret before pushing away. "Better not. I've still got some research I need to do before tomorrow and you've got your early class in the morning."_

_It gutted him to say it, to let the moment between them end, but he wouldn't have her damaged by his need. Something inside broke at the thought that he had to protect her from himself. From the hurt that followed his life with a relentless determination to destroy and ruin._

_Suddenly unsure and maybe a little embarrassed, she'd straightened her clothes and averted her eyes as she stood. "Yeah, you're probably right. I have a test tomorrow in Biology…"_

_As she'd turned to walk away, he shot to his feet and grabbed her hand, pulling her back into his arms. "Hannah. It's not that I don't want to…'cause I do…it's just…it's just not good timing, ya know?"_

_Tentatively, she searched his face, must have found the truth she'd been looking for and smiled, dimples caving in at the corners of it. "Yeah…yeah, I think I do." Mischievousness crept into her eyes as she leaned up to kiss his cheek and whisper, "You owe me a rain check."_

"Dean? Earth to Dean." Sam's fingers were snapping inches from his face and he flinched, bringing up a hand to swat at them.

The memory fell away like so much sand sliding through his fingers, leaving him cold and vacant in the absence of _her._

"You okay, man?"

Blinking to Sam's face and then away, he answered, "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Dr. Phil. I'm fine. Just," his cast his eyes away, "…remembering."

His body echoed remembered desire, but more than that, he ached for her touch, for the way she'd looked at him—made him feel whole and not quite so broken.

"Anything I need to know about?" Sam asked.

A slow, lop-sided grin transformed his face, putting a twinkle back in his eyes. Holding up one hand, palm out, he said, "Nope. Some things I need to keep for myself, little brother."

Letting out an exaggerated grunt, Sam stood and offered his help up. "You ready to blow this joint, then?"

"Are you kidding? I never wanted to be here in the first place."

He gripped Sam's hand and stood, wincing, his body protesting the fresh blood rushing to cramped muscles and still healing wounds. With one last glance at the window, he nodded then turned and headed toward the stairs. Snagging their duffle, Sam gave the place one last look, too, before trailing after him.

"Hey, Sam? Can we make one stop on our way out of town?"

"Sure. Anything you like."

oooOOOooo

_Everything's broken, everything's vacant, _

_Everything's wasted time again. _

_Sentiments, hopeless _

_Innocence, jaded_

_Everything's wasted time again._

Sam watched from the car, curious as to why Dean had wanted to stop here. The door jingle-jangled open and when he looked up, his jaw fell slack. He couldn't have been more shocked than if his brother had exited wearing a sequined dress. When Dean dropped into the seat next to him, he couldn't _stop _staring.

"Better close your trap, Sam. You'll swallow one of those exotic fruit flies they have out here."

Still not completely sure of what was going on, Sam asked, "What's going on?"

Lips twisting into a half-grin, Dean answered, "C'mon, Sammy—I know roses are your favorite." Then, falling serious, continued, "Santa Clara's on our way out of town. Think maybe we have time for a quick stop?"

Dean's gaze held Sam's until he nodded, shifted the Impala into gear, and pulled away from the curb. Stealing quick glances at Dean, Sam watched his brother carefully place his purchase across his lap, fingers gentle and reverent, then crank down his window. Fresh air spilled into the car and teased Dean's spiky tufts, he lifted his face into it and, with eyes closed, released a long sigh.

oooOOOooo

_Someday we might find_

_Some sacred place in time_

_But until then_

_All we'll share_

_Are dreams we left behind._

Sam kept Dean in his sights. He'd thought about going with him, but decided his brother deserved to keep this to himself. Sam had said his goodbyes long ago and didn't need closure. Not anymore. He just needed his brother to be okay with this and, well, just _okay_.

He leaned against the Impala, let the warmth of it sink into him and tried not to stare too much. Found he couldn't _not_ look. He wanted to touch this part of his brother, hug it close and keep it for himself—this part of Dean kept so closely guarded. He felt another painful thump in the center of his chest as he watched his brother wipe at his face and turn to leave. Sam pretended to study his left thumbnail with rapt attention. Dean picked his way back across the cemetery, donning his sunglasses even though night was already well on its way. Sam climbed back into the driver's seat and waited, blinking his own eyes clear.

The car door squeaked open and he was greeted by a gruff, "Let's hit the road, Sam."

And they both left it at that.

Behind them, the last stray beams of day struck the petals of the pure white roses snugged next to the onyx gravestone. Dusk colored them purple-pink for a few seconds before the sun completely dipped and disappeared beyond the horizon.

oooOOOooo

As the Impala roared down the freeway, Dean pulled his coat tighter around his middle, the night air rapidly cooling. He'd been the one who had insisted on keeping the windows down—needing the openness and the air—despite the night's sudden bite and wasn't about to give in now.

Turning the radio up a notch, he curled into the soft leather seat and mumbled, "Wake me when we get there, Sam."

As he drifted off, he thought he heard his name whisper on the wind, accompanied by faraway feminine laughter. He smirked at his own foolishness…but for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. That night, when Hannah came to haunt his dreams, he clung to the memories of a girl who'd touched his soul with kindness and acceptance…and found he no longer needed nor wanted to forget.

The End.

* * *

**A/N#2:**

I hope this was a satisfying conclusion for you guys. I apologize profusely for taking so long, but it was, not one, but several events that contributed to my sluggishness. The least of these not being a terrible bout of writer's block and much agonizing over the love scene. I nearly cut that section several times, did rewrite it several times and I'm still not satisfied with it, but I didn't feel like I could make you all continue to wait on it.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for reading. I appreciate every single person who read this story whether you reviewed or not. But, I especially appreciate all of you who have supported me with your kinds words, followed me from chapter to chapter despite the sometimes lengthy absences…it was needed and greatly appreciated.

Also, I'd like to thank everyone who contributed to this chapter with varying degrees of beta'ing and opinion giving. Thanks to Gaelicspirit and Thru Terry's Eyes for being the voices that calmed me down when I nearly junked the whole thing.

Thanks to Tidia for her valiant efforts at keeping me brief and focused as well as correct in form. Thanks to Mady Bay for holding my hand and catching so, so many mistakes that my eyes flew right over without a pause. Also, everyone give thanks to Mady, she made a great catch on the guilt/blame thing toward the end. I was not making much sense before she straightened me out.

And lastly, I'd like to thank Sodakey for some invaluable advice and several needed suggestions throughout that helped make it all read a lot better.

I appreciate each and every person who beta'ed this thing. The improvements are _clearly_ a result of your sharp eyes and continuing wisdom.

The song lyrics scattered throughout are as follows:

"Fire in the Sky" by Ozzy Osbourne

"Wasted Time" by Fuel

Oh, and there really is a cemetery in Santa Clara, CA, called Mission City Cemetery…and it's located not far from the location of this story (San Jose) on North _Winchester_ Boulevard. Convenient, eh?

Next on the docket, "What Comes After," the follow up to "The Wake-Up Call." It's outlined and ready to go. I expect to start posting it sometime in January.

All reviews will be smished, squished, and hugely appreciated.


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